


The Holly and the Ivy

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Advent Calendar, Christmas, Dating, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Sharing a Bed, Tumblr Prompt, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: A series of vignettes, detailing Crowley and Aziraphale's first holiday season together following Armageddon-that-wasn’t.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 79





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> I’m taking up [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)'s [advent calendar](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) challenge through December! All prompt responses will be [posted to Tumblr](https://waterofthemoon.tumblr.com/post/189411010369/good-omens-advent-calendar) and collected here. Thanks to chat for always supporting me and to drawlight for the inspiration. ♥ Happy holidays, everyone!

"Crowley," Aziraphale says. "Does the mistletoe truly need to be in _every_ doorway?"

"'Course, it's no good if you can avoid it," Crowley says. It's muffled by the sprig in his mouth, which he removes to begin hanging in the bookshop's front entrance.

The other thresholds of the building are already adorned: the back room, the foot of the stairs, the door to the upstairs flat. And, of course, the door to the flat's small bedroom, where Crowley's been staying with him some nights. Aziraphale hasn't slept so much in centuries.

"Besides, it'll help your business, won't it?" Crowley adds.

Aziraphale squints at him. "How do you figure that?"

"Well," Crowley says, in the tone he always gets when he thinks he's being terribly clever, "people come into the shop, right, and oh no! A stranger's come in at the same time! Or their worst enemy!"

"Has just happened to come in at the same time."

"Stop interrupting." Crowley waves him off. "Anyway, the rules of mistletoe mean that they have to kiss, or it's bad luck or whatever humans believe now, and then it's so awkward that they get embarrassed and leave. Or it's not awkward, and then they have to leave for a different reason." He pauses for dramatic effect. "Without _ever touching_ one of your books."

Aziraphale has to admit—it's sound logic, for something Crowley came up with on the spot. That's not the real reason Crowley's doing all this, though, and they both know it.

"You do know," he says, "that if you want to kiss me, all you ever have to do is ask?"

He crosses the room and insinuates himself into Crowley's space. One of his arms winds around Crowley's waist, while the other reaches up to pluck the plant from his hand, which he holds above them.

"Oh, look," Aziraphale says, leaning in close. "Mistletoe."

Crowley grins and takes the bait. Their mouths slide together with practiced ease, but Aziraphale's breath still catches every time. They can do this; they can be together.

"Now," Aziraphale says when they separate, "I think that if you're truly bent on being obnoxious, you should offer some mistletoe to our neighbors, too. Or, not offer. Gift. Without telling them." He thinks for a moment. "Particularly, I think, that nice fellow with the delightful shop next door."

A slow, mischievous smile crosses Crowley's face as he processes Aziraphale's suggestion. " _Angel_ ," he says with a hint of awe. "You're a diabolical genius."

"Hmph. I prefer celestially gifted," Aziraphale says, but he lets Crowley take the mistletoe and kiss him under it again.


	2. Snow

Crowley comes to awareness with Aziraphale shaking his shoulder.

"Do wake up, Crowley," Aziraphale says urgently. "It's the first snowfall!"

"Angel, remind me," Crowley says. He yawns and forces himself to sit up in bed. "How many of those have we seen, exactly?"

Aziraphale's face falls a little. "Does that mean you don't want to come outside with me? I thought—well, it might be fun."

Crowley groans and drags a hand down his face. "Of course not, I'd love to go out and see the snow with you," he says. "Give me five minutes."

"Wonderful!" Aziraphale claps his hands together and exits the room, leaving Crowley to pull himself together. Eventually, the sounds of Aziraphale bustling around in the bookshop are too much to resist, and he swings his legs out of bed and heads downstairs, miracling himself presentable on the way.

Aziraphale's soft smile when he sees Crowley is almost too much for Crowley to take this early in the morning. He feels himself returning it with one of his own, entirely involuntarily.

"Oh, good, you're here," Aziraphale says. "Shall we?"

"Oh, I suppose," Crowley says. He pushes open the bookshop door and steps out into a world that looks the same as the day before, but now with white flakes descending from the sky.

It's cold, and damp, and generally not Crowley's idea of a good time. He's seriously considering dragging Aziraphale back inside so they can warm up together, or at least going in long enough to steal one of Aziraphale's coats. Aziraphale is beaming, though, and sticking his tongue out in a vain attempt to catch snowflakes.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Aziraphale looks over at him and frowns. "Oh. You're shivering, darling."

"'M fine," Crowley says, trying to curl in on himself without being obvious about it.

Aziraphale tsks. "Nonsense. Here." He unwinds the scarf he's wearing and, before Crowley can protest further, wraps it around Crowley's neck.

Crowley's not proud—he burrows his face into the scarf, which is incredibly soft and smells like Aziraphale. It's in Aziraphale's own tartan, the one that matches his bow tie, and is also amazingly _warm_.

"Oh—you look—" Aziraphale's hands flutter in front of him. "You're wearing my pattern. I didn't realize—"

"Not my color, right?" Crowley nudges him. "I know, but _someone_ trussed me up without asking."

"That's not it at all," Aziraphale says, ignoring the jab. "You look—like _mine_. You are mine, aren't you?"

Crowley swallows to avoid having emotions in public, even if they're only just outside the bookshop. "You know I am. Always have been."

"Well. Good." And then Aziraphale kisses him right there in the doorway, with the snow falling down, heedless of the people passing by. Suddenly, Crowley is plenty warm.


	3. Nutcracker

"Angel, fancy seeing the ballet tonight?" Crowley pops up from behind him without so much as a by your leave.

"Well, I'm not sure," Aziraphale says. He's rearranging some of the shelves in the bookshop and uses it as an excuse to turn away from Crowley. "I've just gotten a new shipment in. Very exciting illuminated manuscripts from a private collector in France."

Crowley circles around him and waves two tickets in his face. "That's a shame, because I've got tickets. We could have dinner, I'll wear a nice suit… think about it."

Aziraphale bites his lip—that does sound nice. Certainly more fun than updating inventory. "What's playing?"

"What's always playing in December? The _Nutcracker_." Crowley hesitates. "But you like that one, right? I remember, you said—"

"You remembered right," Aziraphale hastens to reassure him. It's no _Swan Lake_ , certainly, but it's a beautiful story in its own right. "It all sounds terribly romantic. I'd be delighted to go with you."

He watches in fascination as a deep blush spreads across Crowley's cheeks. This shift in their relationship is so _new_ , only since the summer. It's still a revelation to Aziraphale that he can just say things like that instead of having to pretend he's not swooning whenever Crowley acts on his tender streak, which Crowley's also been doing more often lately.

"Okay. Good." Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'll be back this evening to pick you up, then." He leans in, and Aziraphale tilts his face up to be kissed, which Crowley indulges before stalking out the door.

He turns up later, right on time, wearing an all black suit that fits him perfectly and with half a dozen roses in hand. They have a lovely dinner at the Dorchester—Aziraphale still has France on the brain—and then head to the theatre where the ballet is being performed.

It's an excellent show, full of romance, dancing, and Christmas magic, but the best part is Crowley sitting next to him. Crowley, who brought him _flowers_ , who gazed at him across the table at dinner, who (after some kind of complicated internal struggle about it) takes his hand after intermission and doesn't let go until the ballet ends.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says as they're walking back to the car, because he can say that now, too. "This was a wonderful evening. Exactly what I needed."

"No problem," Crowley says. His hands are in his pockets again, but Aziraphale links arms with him and presses close into Crowley's side, which seems to startle him.

"Oh, weren't the dancers beautiful?" Aziraphale remarks. "Especially Clara, so light on her feet. And the Sugar Plum Fairy!"

Crowley relaxes a bit. "Yeah, I thought some of the company needed a bit more work, but the principals were good. Glad you enjoyed yourself."

They get in the car and drive back to the bookshop, making idle chatter about the show and the weather. When they get there, Crowley pulls up in front but doesn't make a move to get out.

"My dear," Aziraphale says, to which Crowley makes some kind of incoherent noise, "do come inside. I hate for our evening to end here. We could open a bottle?"

"Yeah, okay," Crowley says, like he was waiting for an invitation, like he even needs one when it comes to Aziraphale. Not now, not ever again if Aziraphale can help it. _Our side._

Crowley turns the Bentley off and follows Aziraphale up the walk, and Aziraphale pulls him inside and locks the door behind them, keeping them both safe and sound.


	4. Cranberry

"Hey, it's me," Crowley says as he lets himself into the bookshop. Aziraphale's closed today, but that's never applied to him. "Brought you something."

"Oh?" Aziraphale, who's reading in his favorite chair, lifts his head from his book with interest.

Crowley hands over the single use paper bag. "Cranberry scone, from that little bakery you like," he says. "They had their seasonal sign up, and I was passing by anyway."

He's not sure why he feels like he has to explain himself. Habit, he supposes. He's not used to being able to just—do things for Aziraphale without thinking about how it might look if he were caught.

"Ooh, scrummy," Aziraphale says, with that delighted smile Crowley was aiming for. He opens the bag and takes a bite. "Mmmm, still warm."

"Well, enjoy," Crowley says. His work here is done, and he turns to leave, but Aziraphale reaches out and snags his hand.

"Oh, are you going somewhere? Don't, come here." Aziraphale closes his book, sets the scone aside, and pulls Crowley to him until Crowley tumbles, ungracefully, into his lap. "You went to such trouble; you ought to stay for a bit."

Aziraphale breaks off a piece of scone and presses it to Crowley's lips. Crowley opens his mouth for Aziraphale's fingers without thinking about it and ends up inhaling the bite, which he chews thoughtfully as he adjusts his balance on Aziraphale's legs. It's a little dry, like scones are, but the dried cranberries add sweetness and flavor.

"Not bad," he admits. "You have the rest."

"If you're sure," Aziraphale says, already taking another bite with pleasure and leaving Crowley free to watch him up close. The cranberries remind him of something, too.

"D'you remember when they first started preserving fruit?" Crowley asks. "Must have been, hmmm, Mesopotamia. After, you know." He waves a hand in dismissal of the Great Flood and subsequent re-population, then laughs a little. "I remember, you were _fascinated_. Kept telling me how clever it all was."

Aziraphale nudges him in indignation. "It was, rather. I never would have thought of drying out dates or inventing raisins."

"Ohhh, dates." Crowley's eyes fall shut briefly in reminiscence. "Can't get a good authentic date palm cocktail these days. I mean, you can, but it's not the same. Atmosphere's all wrong."

"Mmmm." Aziraphale finishes his scone and dabs his mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief produced from his pocket, then gathers Crowley closer to him. Crowley lets himself be rearranged and ends up properly straddling Aziraphale, his forehead resting on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Did you ever think—" Aziraphale starts. He pauses; Crowley waits him out. "Back then. Did you ever wonder how it would all turn out?"

Crowley considers the question. "Nah," he decides. "Knew you'd still be around, didn't I?"

" _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale manages, his voice sort of strangled, and then Crowley is being pulled up and kissed within an inch of his life.

All that, just for a scone. _Ridiculous_ , he thinks fondly before kissing back just as hard.


	5. Fire

They're sitting in front of the fire in Crowley's flat. Crowley didn't always have a fireplace, or a floral-patterned sofa with exactly the right amount of squashiness, or a thick rug in front of the fire that Aziraphale can dig his sock-covered toes into, but he does now. It makes Aziraphale's heart fill with gladness to see the lengths Crowley will go to in order to make his flat comfortable for them, to make Aziraphale feel at home.

They could have done this at the bookshop, of course. Aziraphale already has a very nice loveseat and fire grate in his own flat, not to mention the downstairs area where they usually convene. But he saw the raw look of both fear and relief on Crowley's face the first time they went back to the shop after— _after_ , anyway—and really, why risk it, when Crowley's made it very clear that Aziraphale is welcome to stay here?

So they're sitting by the crackling fire, and Aziraphale is snug against Crowley's side, a soft, woolen blanket drawn over them both. Crowley's arm is wrapped comfortably around him, his fingertips grazing rhythmically over the velvet of Aziraphale's waistcoat. Aziraphale is rather considering the idea of banishing a few of his layers, sometime very soon.

"What're you thinking about?" Crowley asks. His voice is pitched low, a little gravelly, and despite the warmth in the room, Aziraphale shivers delightfully.

"Just that it's getting quite warm in here," he says, aiming for coy but almost certainly missing the mark.

"Comes of lighting a fire indoors, when I've got central heating," Crowley says. He sounds amused, now. "Is it too much?"

Aziraphale's not certain if he only means the heat from the fire. Regardless, he presses on. "Not at all," he says. "But if you have no objections, I'll just—"

He extricates himself from Crowley enough to draw a hand down his front. His buttons obligingly move out of the way as he does so, and he removes his bow tie, waistcoat, and shirt, then slips his braces off his shoulders to hang loose at his waist.

"No objections," Crowley manages. It's hardly the first time Crowley's seen him in a state of undress, but he still sounds gratifyingly tongue-tied. "Come here."

Crowley reaches for him, then, and moves at the same time, so that they end up lying down facing each other, Aziraphale stretched out atop Crowley's front. The blanket ends up pushed to the end of the sofa, halfway spilling onto the floor.

"Oh, that's better," Crowley says. He leans up at the exact moment that Aziraphale bends down, and they catch each other's mouths somewhere in the middle. Crowley's hands wander to Aziraphale's undershirt, which he untucks from Aziraphale's trousers so he can slip his hands underneath. Aziraphale jumps a little when Crowley touches his bare skin.

"Your hands are cold," he points out, sliding one hand into Crowley's hair. "How is that even possible?"

"Better warm them up, then." Crowley tweaks one of his nipples, then moves to grip Aziraphale's sides. He grinds his hips up, and Aziraphale responds eagerly in kind. Crowley looks gorgeous in the firelight, all in shades of burnished gold, his smile turning his whole face alight. He looks like Aziraphale's.

The fire crackles on as they kiss and undress, winding arms around each other, suffusing the room with so much love that Aziraphale could burst with it. He curves his hand around the back of Crowley's head, and sighs into his mouth, and is glad all over again that they were able to make it here, after everything.


	6. Sleigh Bells

"When you said 'take a turn around the park'—" Crowley starts.

"Isn't it marvelous?" Aziraphale asks.

It's not exactly the word Crowley has in mind as he surveys the carriage in which Aziraphale is ensconced, the indifferent driver, and the two dappled mares, which are stomping their feet and flaring their nostrils at the sight of him. He's never gotten along with horses.

"Reminds me a bit of the old days, you know," Aziraphale says cheerfully. "You used to see carriages like this everywhere."

Crowley remembers. He also remembers that time period for having to be even more careful with the attention he paid Aziraphale, lest they arouse suspicion from the human police, not to mention the two of them getting into the worst fight they ever had.

"They're capitalizing on your nostalgia, angel," Crowley says, instead of dredging up the past. "I should know."

"Oi!" The driver turns and glares at him. "I just drive the horses, mate. Are you getting in or not?"

Aziraphale gives him another expectant look, and Crowley scowls. "Fine," he says, climbing in next to Aziraphale. As soon as he does, the horses whinny and stamp their feet in protest.

"Goodness, I think that's enough of that," Aziraphale says—to the _horses_ , Crowley realizes as they reluctantly settle down. To Crowley, he says, "See, isn't this nice?"

Now that he's in the carriage, he supposes it's not so bad, really. Aziraphale has his arm around him and looks pleased as anything, which is one of Crowley's favorite looks on him. The driver sets off around St. James's, which coincides with a sudden, persistent jingling, and that's when Crowley notices that there are _bells_ on the horses and carriage.

"They're sleigh bells!" Aziraphale explains when Crowley raises an eyebrow. "It's festive."

"Says you," Crowley grumbles. It's a bit nippy out, so he leans into Aziraphale's warmth, which is probably what Aziraphale wanted all along, the bastard.

"Yes, and I'm always right about this kind of thing," Aziraphale says, not even trying to hide his smugness.

Whether by design or by divine intervention, Crowley doesn't know—although he has his suspicions—the driver takes them directly in front of their usual bench. It's currently occupied by a pair of geriatric lovers, two women holding hands as they alternately gaze at the ducks and each other.

Aziraphale's hand slips into his, then—his right hand, into Crowley's left, so that their fingers are joined across the span of their bodies. Crowley holds on tight. He still has trouble meeting Aziraphale's eyes, sometimes, and seeing all the affection Aziraphale wasn't ready to show before. This, though, he can do.

The carriage drives on, and the bells keep jingling, and Crowley and Aziraphale keep on holding hands, all the way home.


	7. Silent Night

Crowley finds him standing outside a church in the middle of the night, staring at the nativity scene in their courtyard.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything for a long moment. He feels a bit silly, honestly, but then, Crowley's never minded that too much. Still, he keeps on not saying anything until Crowley rests a hand at the small of his back.

"Do you—" _Remember, like I do?_

"Yeah," Crowley says. "'Course. Hard to forget, that." His voice sounds a little rough, which is reassuring. "Wasn't a night like this, though. Bit warmer."

"Mmm," Aziraphale agrees. The large figurines the church is using are a bit tacky, and woefully inaccurate besides. But the scene still brings him back to that dark night, the smell of the animals, the cry of the Almighty’s very human newborn child.

Crowley laughs suddenly. "Remember your old boss? And the shepherds?"

"I _do_ ," Aziraphale says, and he laughs, too. He was supposed to be in the angelic chorus that night, but he got distracted by one thing or another, and then by Crowley turning up in disguise as a snake. By the time they got there, the shepherds were cowering in fear, except for the ones who were giving Gabriel extremely skeptical looks, which was most of them. Gabriel didn't wear a suit in those days, but the effect was the same.

"And the magi," Crowley continues. "That was my favorite part. Bunch of scholars and philosophers, caravaning through the desert, asking if we happened to have seen a baby. I remember, you put that great light in the sky."

Aziraphale frowns and turns to stare at Crowley, incredulous. "That wasn't me. Have you spent all this time thinking I did the Star of Bethlehem?"

"It wasn't? Huh." Crowley pauses momentarily, then shrugs. "Well, anyway, they were great fun to travel with, especially the one guy who worked out that I knew something about astronomy. Awfully nice of them to loan us a camel, too."

"Come now, you hated that camel," Aziraphale protests. "It spit on you, as I recall."

Crowley shudders. "Thanks, I was repressing that."

They look at each other and share another laugh, and then Crowley offers his hand. "Come on," he says. Aziraphale is glad, for once, that he doesn't say _angel_. "Let's go home, hmmm? You can relive the past some more once we're cozy in bed, instead of out here, freezing our wings off."

Aziraphale takes his hand, a lifeline against the darkness, as it always has been. He starts to turn away from the nativity, then stops.

"Do you think He knew, how it would all—do you think She—"

"You know they didn't," Crowley says, soft. He squeezes Aziraphale's hand. "It's all—what's your favorite word again?"

"Oh, stop," Aziraphale says, but he lets Crowley lead him away from the church and through the silent night.


	8. Choir

They're strolling through the park one evening—or rather, Aziraphale is strolling, and Crowley is loping along beside him, sure that his besotted smile is all over his face, sure that he doesn't care if it is. Aziraphale is chattering about a play he wants Crowley to take him to (although he'll never say so, even now) when they come across a church choir singing carols.

"Oh, Crowley, look," Aziraphale says, grabbing his arm. Crowley obligingly slows to a stop.

Neither of them is much for hymns—that's human stuff, religion. Crowley knows what he knows, and Aziraphale does the same, and that's fine. But it seems that Aziraphale can't help but get caught up in some of the trappings of it all, particularly around Christmas.

The choir finishes their song and starts the next one. Crowley recognizes it and nudges Aziraphale. "They're singing about you."

"They never," Aziraphale protests. "I was barely even involved with all the singing and praising business, as you well know. Very boring job, I always thought."

He's smiling, though, brighter than anything. Crowley takes it as a win and hums along with the part of the tune he's picked up.

"Glo-ooo-oooria, _in excelsis Deo_ ," he sings, low and directly in Aziraphale's ear. The Latin words don't burn on his tongue the way some of the older languages do. Even if they did, it would be worth it to see Aziraphale flush and pull away from him like he's been somehow caught out, or maybe because of the reaction he's having to Crowley's breath and tonal vibrations on the delicate skin there.

"You're incorrigible," Aziraphale says, huffy. Crowley doesn't let it put him off and slings an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, drawing him back in.

"Should I say _in excelsis Aziraphale_ instead?" he asks. "Doesn't scan very well, I'm afraid."

"No, you should not," Aziraphale says. He bites his lip in consideration. "Well. Maybe later, if the mood strikes you."

Crowley barks out a laugh. "If the _mood strikes me_ —"

"Oh, stop quarreling and just _listen_ ," Aziraphale says. His face goes a bit dreamy as he focuses on the singers again. "They're lovely, aren't they? All that joy, radiating."

"I suppose," Crowley says, skeptical.

He does stop and pay proper attention, then. While he's still not sure what Aziraphale sees in a bunch of random humans, the singing and clapping is infectious; when they segue into Joy to the World, Crowley's toes start tapping of their own accord. He doesn't want to see Aziraphale being insufferable about it, so he doesn't look over.

"See?" Aziraphale says, managing to be insufferable anyway, bless him. "I believe the humans call that 'Christmas spirit.'"

"I have a reputation, I'll have you know," Crowley informs him. "Had. Once. Anyway."

He feels Aziraphale's arm sneak around his waist. "It's not as dire as all that, is it?"

Crowley shrugs and hauls Aziraphale closer. "Oh, I suppose not." The choir starts in on Deck the Halls, and in Crowley's opinion, the only thing worse than religious hymns is secular carols about the magic of the season.

"Fa-la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la," he sings anyway in Aziraphale's ear, and then has to placate him with a kiss to his head. Still worth it.


	9. Chestnuts

The Christmas market is just as lovely as Aziraphale hoped it would be. There are lights strung across the aisles, people chattering happily, and Crowley holding his hand as they wander through.

Crowley doesn't seem to think it's lovely. He has that look in his eyes that usually means trouble and inconvenience for the humans around them. Sure enough, not five minutes later, a nearby fruit merchant's booth gives out on one side, causing the inventory to slide to the ground as the table collapses. Some of the fruit ends up rolling into the walkway and under the feet of a man in an expensive-looking dark suit, who trips on it and falls in full view of his wife and children.

"Really, dearest," Aziraphale admonishes. A quick twist of reality, and no lasting damage has been done to either the fruit or the man. Instead of getting angry as he might normally have done, the man decides that it would be a much better idea if he and his family assisted the fruit seller, a kind young woman who is equally surprised by the help in clearing up the mess.

"Really, yourself," Crowley grouses. "That was going a little too far, don't you think?"

Aziraphale sniffs. "It's Christmas," he says. "Time of peace and goodwill. Who's to say that he wasn't affected by the season?"

"Because I _know you_ , angel, and—" Crowley breaks off, apparently deciding not to continue the argument. "Ah, forget it. Remind me why you wanted to come here again?"

"It's _Christmas_ ," Aziraphale says again. "This is what people do these days. I felt like blending in."

"We don't even celebrate Christmas," Crowley points out in a low tone, so as not to attract attention. "Not really, not like they do." He pauses. "'S nice to get out, though, you're right about that."

Aziraphale clutches his hand tighter and looks over at him. In deference to the weather, Crowley is wearing an overcoat, leather gloves, and a knitted hat from which his auburn bangs are escaping. He also, somehow, still has Aziraphale's tartan scarf, knotted firmly around his neck and tucked into his coat. As before, it stands out sharply in contrast to the rest of his ensemble and fills Aziraphale with a warm glow, to know that he did that.

"Stop staring," Crowley says. A light blush is coloring his cheeks.

"Just admiring." On impulse, Aziraphale leans in and kisses Crowley's cheek. "You look just radiant under the lights, my dear."

"You can't just— _say_ things like that," says Crowley, who is well and truly flushed now, Aziraphale notes with a certain degree of satisfaction. Before Aziraphale can point out that he can and he will if the mood strikes him, Crowley slows to a stop. "Oh, here you go, angel. Fancy some chestnuts? It's tradition, you like that."

They have, in fact, found themselves in front of a booth selling roasted chestnuts and other fare, and they buy a bag and move away through the crowds, towards home. Aziraphale peels chestnuts as they walk and presses one to Crowley's lips. To his delight, Crowley accepts it from his hand, sucking on the fingertips as he does.

"We have got to talk about you and PDA," Crowley grumbles when he's done chewing. "That was good, though. Nice flavor. Let me have another."

Aziraphale, in love and recognizing the grumbling as the token protest it is, feeds him another one, and pops a chestnut in his own mouth for good measure. They continue like that all the way home, long after the bag should have run out.


	10. Gold and SIlver

Somehow, Crowley's been roped into going ice skating.

Actually, there's no "somehow" about it. He knows exactly how it happened: they were walking through Hyde Park of a morning and passed by the outdoor rink, and Aziraphale said, "oh, that looks like fun," and now Crowley's struggling to stay upright while balancing on his rented skates. Aziraphale, the bastard, is gliding along beside him competently enough.

"How did you get so good at this?" Crowley asks him. He eyes up Aziraphale's form—never a hardship—and tries to mimic his movements, but he ends up nearly falling to the ice. Only Aziraphale's arms around him keeps him from taking out the two skaters nearby.

"Crowley, for goodness' sake," Aziraphale says, like Crowley's doing this on purpose. He sets Crowley upright again. "Look, it's easier if you use your—er, _pretend you have_ wings," he amends for the benefit of the humans passing by on either side. "Watch."

Aziraphale skates a lazy circle around him, and now Crowley can see the way his shoulders flex, how he uses the extra limbs for balance and lift. He concentrates and unfurls his own wings on an extradimensional plane somewhere, careful to keep them out of sight. The difference is immediate—he overbalances at first but catches himself and does a little twirl in place, grinning at Aziraphale.

"There you go," Aziraphale says, smiling back. Now that Crowley's not fighting to stay on his feet, he can properly gaze at Aziraphale like he always wants to do. The sun reflecting off the ice is catching in Aziraphale's hair and clothes and limning him in light, a vision in silver and gold, so beautiful Crowley can hardly stand it. He reaches out to take Aziraphale's hand.

"This is actually not half bad," Crowley concedes. "Skate with me, angel?" Aziraphale accepts, and they move around the ice together, hand in hand like the human lovers doing the same around them.

There's a bandstand in the middle of the rink, in the same style as their old rendezvous point. After a few times around, they stop to rest in front of it.

"Hey," Crowley says. An inquisitive noise escapes Aziraphale's lips. Crowley swallows hard before continuing. "I'm glad we didn't go anywhere. I would've missed this." There's more, but they've discussed it all before. He trusts Aziraphale to find the things he's not saying.

"No ice rinks on Alpha Centauri, for a start," Aziraphale agrees. He gives Crowley a smile so secret and private, Crowley has no choice but to cup his jaw and kiss him, right there in the middle of the ice.

They gaze at each other when they separate, and then Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand. "Let's go again," he suggests. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."

Aziraphale squeezes his hand. The light is still falling on him just so, turning him gold on gold on ethereally gold, on a backdrop of silvery ice. It's blinding in the best way possible. "I think you already have."


	11. Pine

"A little to the left," Aziraphale directs. "Hmmm... perhaps just a scotch back the other way."

"If you don't stop, I'm going to drop it, and I won't be held responsible for what happens next," Crowley warns him.

Aziraphale huffs. "Fine." Crowley sets the tree down in the corner of the shop, where it immediately sheds pine needles onto the floor. When he walks away, Aziraphale surreptitiously nudges it into place with a miracle-aided gesture.

"I felt that," Crowley says from behind him. He turns around and rests his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder, and Aziraphale leans back against him. "It's a good tree, eh? I _told_ you the other one was too big."

"You always did have an eye for that sort of thing," Aziraphale says. The tree and Crowley in the same place reminds him of celebrations long past, when the solstice traditions were new. Even before they were really friends, they would meet up sometimes at midwinter and share a drink or two.

As if he's remembering, too, Crowley plants a kiss on Aziraphale's neck and pulls away in the direction of the wine collection. "I'm opening a bottle," he announces. "Something sweet. Just feels right."

Aziraphale watches him move around the shop, his _home_ , with ease and grace, selecting vintages, pulling glasses down from the rack in the tiny kitchen. When he thinks back, Crowley's always made himself at home in Aziraphale's space in one way or another, but he's never been like this, so completely at peace. The brittle, yearning edge that Aziraphale once refused to see has faded from him, run river-smooth under Aziraphale's hands.

He's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice Crowley coming back until he's being tapped on the shoulder. "All right?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale accepts the glass he's being handed. "Perfectly," he says. "Could I possibly interest you in helping me decorate it?"

"Oh, all right," Crowley says, in the tone he uses when he was already planning to do something but wants to pretend it's a great hardship. "But if you tell me 'tinsel is stylish,' I swear I'm disowning you."

"Hmmm. Perhaps next year," Aziraphale says. He's yearned for Crowley, too, after all, and has no intention of letting him go now. "I was thinking of something rather more traditional for our first one." As he walks away to get the box of ornaments, he catches Crowley mouthing the words "our" and "first" to himself, a stunned expression on his face, and smiles.

They string lights and cranberries on the tree; they hang Aziraphale's vintage glass ornaments, and not a single one gets dropped. There's no tinsel in sight. It's perfect, and Aziraphale says as much, sighing to himself.

"It's because we did it. Together," Crowley mumbles. He pulls a face. "Ugh. Was that too sappy? I can. Not. Do that."

"Nonsense," Aziraphale says. He wraps an arm around Crowley's waist. "It's nearly midwinter; perfect time to be sappy. Besides, I rather like it, coming from you."

A soft smile graces Crowley's face. "Well, if you like it."

"That's settled, then," Aziraphale says. He leans in, resting his head on Crowley's shoulder, and continues to admire their handiwork. It really is a good tree.


	12. Caroling

They're sitting around in the bookshop, because they usually end up at the bookshop when they want to drink, since Aziraphale hoards good wine and decorative yet astonishingly comfortable pillows like he does with everything else he likes. Crowley is in the middle of recounting his neighbor's affair escapades (his wife came home early, and he had to hide the mistress in the closet only for her to burst out in an outrage, very messy and exactly the kind of schadenfreude Crowley lives for) when there's a knock on the door.

"Oh, who could that be?" Aziraphale huffs. "Can't they see I'm closed?" He gets up, though, and straightens his bow tie as he goes to chase away whoever it is.

Crowley takes the opportunity to pour them both more wine and sprawl languorously across the sofa, in hopes that Aziraphale will take it for the invitation it is when he comes back. Instead of terse goodbyes, though, he hears Aziraphale's voice turn delighted, followed by the sound of—

Children singing?

With a sigh, Crowley pulls himself up, retrieves his sunglasses, and ambles into the front of the shop, where he does, in fact, find a gaggle of local kids on Aziraphale's doorstep, singing a loud, off-key version of Away in a Manger. He even recognizes a couple of them.

"Hi," Crowley says when the song, mercifully, ends. "Where did you lot come from?"

"None of your business," one of the kids says, while a couple of the others chime in, "The zoo!" and "Well, _I_ came from Buckingham Palace."

The last one, from a freckle-faced girl, earns her a nudge in the ribs from her friend beside her. "Shove it, Becky. You did _not_."

"Well, I could have," Becky says, sullen, and elbows her friend back.

"Do you children know any other songs?" Aziraphale cuts in. When Crowley glances over at him, he can see the faint strain around his eyes that comes of spending too much time with bickering kids—that is, any, in Aziraphale's case. Crowley's tolerance is a lot higher, especially after all the time spent with the Dowlings, but he's also eager to get back to their evening.

A chorus of yeses emerges, and a small scuffle breaks out on Aziraphale's doorstep before Crowley raises a hand to quell the disagreement. "Sing something about an angel," he says with a grin, jerking his thumb at Aziraphale. "They're his favorite."

Aziraphale gives him an outraged look but accepts his fate readily enough, as the kids begin singing again, even louder than before. "Hark! the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King…."

When they've sung the last chorus, Aziraphale is good enough to give them a round of applause. "Now, biscuits, and then I think you'd best be on your way, yes?"

He says this with a meaningful look at Crowley, who fetches the biscuit tin and offers them round, free blessings included. A weary adult comes to collect the children in the middle of this, and they scamper off, yelling, "Bye, Mr. Fell! Bye, Mr. Fell's boyfriend!"

"Mmm, I like the sound of that," Crowley says. He pecks Aziraphale on his temple, just for the fun of it. "I'm your _boyfriend_."

Aziraphale pulls a face. "You're incorrigible, is what you are."

"But I'm _your_ incorrigible." Crowley bumps his nose against Aziraphale's cheek, and Aziraphale turns to meet his lips.

"Yes, darling," Aziraphale says into the kiss. "Mine."


	13. Wrapping Paper

Aziraphale has the afternoon to himself—rare, these days, but Crowley popped out to stretch his legs and, very possibly, his demonic tendencies as well, if the opportunity presents itself. He'll tell Aziraphale all about it when he comes back, if that's the case. They're good about that sort of thing these days.

The point is, he's alone, and the shop is closed, so it's the perfect opportunity to wrap Crowley's solstice gift.

Crowley's right that they don't truly celebrate the holidays the way the modern humans do. Their traditions are much older, for all that most of them look the same. But they've exchanged trinkets on the winter solstice, sometimes, when they've been able to meet up. And now that they're finally on the same side, he wants to do right by Crowley.

So he collects the scissors, the tape, the wrapping paper—the heavy, good quality kind, not the cheap stuff you see more often these days. He doesn't need these things, but it's nice to do things by hand, and Crowley deserves only the best, or at least the best that Aziraphale can give him.

The gift itself he pulls out of a hidden compartment in his rolltop desk. Aziraphale stares at it, just for a moment, before setting it down on the flattened out paper. He hopes Crowley will appreciate the sentiment, if nothing else.

Cut the paper, fold the corners, apply tape. Add a bow on top for flourish, because he knows Crowley will grin and roll his eyes fondly at it. It's easy enough, even if he does expend a miracle to get the folds to line up. All too soon, he's finished.

As he's admiring his work, the chime on the door rings, signaling Crowley's arrival, and it takes another miracle to get everything put away in time. The drawer holding the gift slams shut of its own accord just when Crowley approaches, and Crowley raises an eyebrow.

"It's nothing!" Aziraphale blurts out. Both of Crowley's eyebrows raise, then, and a wicked smile spreads across his face. "Just a—personal project. You'll find out in good time," Aziraphale adds, as primly as he can to hide the shaking in his hands.

"Fine, then," Crowley says, swinging himself onto the sofa. "Keep your secrets. _I've_ been in the city, pulling spikes out of the concrete with my bare hands." He shows Aziraphale his hands, unmarked by any such labor. "My miracles, anyway. Honestly, the capitalists these days."

"Mmm. Good on you. We did always say it was a dubious system at best." Aziraphale stands up for want of something to do with his hands. "Coffee? Cocoa?"

Crowley stretches out on the sofa, extending his long limbs in that way that always makes Aziraphale's mouth go dry. "Scotch, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Aziraphale says. "I'll join you." He hesitates before leaving the room. "Crowley…."

"Yeah?"

"If I were to—to ask you something…."

Crowley pulls his sunglasses off and looks at him, golden eyes piercing. "You're nervous. Why are you nervous?"

Aziraphale breathes in, pulls himself together. Wraps up all his complicated feelings and ties them with a bow for safekeeping. "Never mind," he says with a smile. "I'll tell you later."


	14. Eggnog

Crowley's drunk.

It's okay, though, because Aziraphale's beside him, equally as tipsy.

"Someone—someone spiked the eggnog," Crowley says.

"That was me, darling." Aziraphale refills his own glass and offers the jug to him. "More?"

"Please," Crowley says. He offers his glass to Aziraphale, who fills it on the second try, then frowns and waves away the mess on the mattress and Crowley's arm. At some point, they crawled into Aziraphale's bed, and now they're cuddled close, their ankles hooked together.

The crease in Aziraphale's forehead is too perfect to resist kissing, so he does so, letting his lips linger there. More of the eggnog gets spilled in the process. Crowley laughs and takes a long sip, then lets his head tip over onto Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Mmmm, you feel so good." He gropes at Aziraphale's chest while still trying to keep his glass upright. "C'mere."

Aziraphale bats at his wandering hands. "You're a cuddly drunk. Stop that, you fiend."

"'S the rum," Crowley tries to explain, but he gives up before he gets to any of the explaining parts. Aziraphale seems to accept this as a universal truth, however.

"Right you are. Come on, then." Aziraphale sets both their glasses on the nightstand and fairly hauls Crowley into his lap, to which he lets out an embarrassing yelping noise. When he gets situated, he's still halfway falling onto the mattress in a messy sprawl of limbs, but Aziraphale has an arm draped around him, keeping him more or less upright.

Crowley sighs happily and grinds his hips down against Aziraphale's, lazy and without much intent. He half-leans, half-falls over in his attempt to kiss Aziraphale, and winds up catching his jaw, his cheek, and the corner of his mouth before finally succeeding in capturing those plush, smiling lips in his. They spend a while trading eggnog-flavored kisses, the sweetness melding beautifully with the taste of Aziraphale's mouth.

By the time they pull back for a breather, Aziraphale's curls are an utter disaster from Crowley's hands raking through them, and he's slipped down the bed to lie halfway horizontal with Crowley still sitting on top of him. Crowley's also started to sober up naturally, having abandoned his drink in favor of making out.

"You are so gorgeous," Crowley says. He runs one hand through Aziraphale's hair, trying to set it to rights but getting lost in the softness again. "Let me get you undressed."

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. "I should—" He hiccups, and the violent movement of his diaphragm nearly dislodges Crowley. "Should—should get you drunk on dark liquor more often."

"Not exac'ly the first time I've prop—propos—hit on you, angel," Crowley points out. "Don't need to be drunk for that. It's just fun." He reaches for his glass, and an idea hits him. A _brilliant_ idea. "Aziraphale. _Aziraphale. Angel._ "

"'M right _here_ ," Aziraphale says, sounding like he's reaching the belligerent stage.

Crowley doesn't mind. "Well, take your shirt off. I've had an idea," he says.

Aziraphale squints suspiciously. "This sounds like the start to pornography."

"I'm obviously not going to complain if it goes that way," Crowley says. "I wanna—wanna try something first, though."

Another huff from Aziraphale, but he half wiggles, half miracles himself out of all his upper layers, leaving him in trousers and socks. All the wiggling and bare skin underneath him is really doing it for Crowley, but he resolves to stay focused.

"What's your great idea, then?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley grins and leans in close. "Think anyone's ever done eggnog body shots before?"

" _Crowley!_ "


	15. Laughter

Another unseasonable snowfall overtakes the city in mid-December. Aziraphale, instead of shutting himself up in the bookshop and enjoying the picturesque view from indoors, finds himself stepping outside to feel it on his skin.

Crowley turns up a bit later in the day, wearing a heavy coat and the tartan scarf that Aziraphale is forced to admit well and truly belongs to Crowley now. It suits him, at least. "It's snowing," Crowley observes.

"So it is," Aziraphale says. He leans in and pecks Crowley on the lips in greeting.

" _Good_ snow," Crowley continues, blushing a little. "Nicely packed. You could do a lot with snow like this."

Aziraphale frowns in sudden consternation. He doesn't like Crowley's tone _at all_. That tone is too often a harbinger of wiles and criminal mischief. "Such as?"

"You could build a snowman," Crowley says all too casually. "Go sledding, if this keeps up." He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks sidelong at Aziraphale, and blast it, Aziraphale can _feel_ himself being tempted. "Or have an utterly fantastic snowball fight."

Aziraphale thinks about it for a minute, looks at the upturned corners of Crowley's mouth, and gives in. "Oh, all right, then. But _not_ in front of the bookshop, I won't have my windows getting broken. Give me just a moment."

He doesn't miss Crowley's grin or his fist pumping as he goes inside, where he takes off his velvet waistcoat and switches his overcoat for a heavier one that's more impervious to the weather. Gloves are in order, too, and a scarf to protect his neck, and then he's ready to go.

They go to the park, and Crowley wastes no time in forming a snowball in his gloved hands and throwing it at him with practiced, if not demonic, accuracy. It hits smack in the middle of Aziraphale's chest and slides to the ground, and Crowley looks positively gleeful at getting in the first hit. Well, two can play at that game. Aziraphale gathers snow in his own hands, packs it tightly, and aims.

The snowball grazes Crowley's shoulder and sails past him to land next to a parked car; Aziraphale only manages to correct its trajectory at the last second. Crowley laughs, delighted.

"You'll have to do better than that, angel!" he calls out, darting away.

"You—" Aziraphale packs another snowball. This one does manage to find its target on Crowley's middle, and he finds himself pelted with several in return, accompanied by Crowley's gleeful laughter. Aziraphale laughs, too, as he attempts to dodge the assault while getting in hits of his own.

In the end, it's a draw. They both wind up red-cheeked and absolutely covered in snow, a situation that only increases when Crowley seems to give up on snowballs and just tackles him into a nearby snowbank. Aziraphale smiles as sweetly as he can, nuzzles their noses together, and uses his legs to flip them over so that Crowley's the one on his back.

"Bastard," Crowley complains. It comes out sounding more like a term of endearment than anything.

"I do believe you started it," Aziraphale says. This time, when he leans in, Crowley's there to meet his lips. He moves to get up after that, but Crowley's faster—he reaches up and shoves a whole handful of snow past Aziraphale's collar, then somehow manages to wriggle away, positively giggling to himself, while Aziraphale's still yelping at the sensation of ice going down his spine.

"You _will_ pay for that!" Aziraphale shouts after him.

Crowley grins. "You'll have to catch me first!" He dashes away, across the park, and Aziraphale gives chase, upsetting their fellow park-goers and a flock of migrating birds in the process. It's the most fun he's had in ages, made even better by Crowley allowing himself to be caught and kissed at the edge of the water.

"All right, let's go home," Crowley says when they part. He tugs at Aziraphale's coat lapel, now rather cold and damp. "We can help each other out of these wet things."

A shiver goes through Aziraphale that has nothing to do with the cold. "With pleasure," he says, feeling his smile spread across his face again as he takes Crowley's hand to lead him home.


	16. Ice Storm

To Crowley's dismay, the weather keeps up and turns into a real, proper ice storm. Playing in the snow with Aziraphale was great fun, but he's not built for weather like this, and neither is London, come to think of it. His flat is too big, too drafty, even with the heat on and the fire going.

He doesn't call Aziraphale, though. He spent over six thousand years being just this side of too much for the angel, and now that the scales are finally tipped in his favor, he doesn't want to push. Besides, he read in some magazine that it's good for couples to spend time apart, so if some nights he has to curl up alone in his too-big bed and think about Aziraphale, that's fine, right?

Anyway. It doesn't even matter, because Aziraphale comes to him.

It's the most bitterly cold night yet, and nothing is working; Crowley's still huddled under a pile of blankets, unable to fall asleep between the shivering and his teeth chattering. He answers the door to Aziraphale's insistent knocking with two of them still draped around his shoulders.

"What," he says.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale says. He wraps an arm around Crowley's shoulders and steers him back towards the bedroom. "You have gotten yourself into a state, haven't you? I felt it, you know."

Crowley can tell he's rapidly losing any control he had over this situation. "You felt that I was freezing my tits off?"

"That you were in _distress_ ," Aziraphale clarifies, a bit tetchily. "Goodness, you really are cold. You should have called. Here we are," he says when they get back to Crowley's bed. "Clothes off, please, but no funny business."

"Is that what we're calling it now," Crowley grumbles. His pajamas come away easily enough, even with his head feeling a bit muzzy from the cold, and he starfishes in the middle of the bed once he's naked.

Aziraphale tsks and undoes his bow tie. "You need body heat, I think, or you won't get properly warm. And, well, I suppose mine will have to do." Crowley drags the covers over himself and watches with interest while Aziraphale strips.

"You _suppose_ ," Crowley says. Then he shuts up, because his bed is suddenly occupied by a very warm, very nude angel. Shamelessly, he pulls Aziraphale towards him and tries to cocoon them under the blankets, but Aziraphale stops him.

"One more thing," Aziraphale says, and before Crowley can say anything, his wings erupt from his back, white and voluminous. At an expectant look from Aziraphale, Crowley lets out a breath and releases his own wings, then lets Aziraphale rearrange their positions until he's satisfied.

They end up in sort of a horizontal hug with arms wrapped around each other, faces a breath apart, skin on skin on skin. Their combined wings cover them with softness and warmth, better than any comforter. Aziraphale pulls the covers over them anyway, so that their feathers serve as insulation. It's the most drowsy and comfortable Crowley's ever been in his entire life.

"This is nice," Aziraphale says. His hand is between Crowley's wings, rubbing gently up and down his spine.

"Stay with me every night," Crowley blurts out, his mouth against Aziraphale's shoulder. He doesn't mean to, but it's out there now, whether it's too much or not. "Here, or at your place, or wherever, I don't care. Just—stay."

To his surprise, Aziraphale says, "Oh, I do hope so. That is—if you're—"

"Shhhh," Crowley says. He snuggles closer and breathes in Aziraphale's scent, soaks up his warmth. "Yeah, I'm sure. But _only_ if we can go to sleep right now."

He more feels than sees Aziraphale's answering smile, they're that close. Outside, the storm rages on, but here in their bed, under the weight of Aziraphale's wings and pressed up against his skin, everything is cozy and snug and nothing hurts. Crowley gives Aziraphale one last squeeze and drifts off in his arms, safe and secure.


	17. Ornament

"Angel!" Crowley calls. Aziraphale's in the back of the shop, but he bustles his way to the front, feeling an assuredly ridiculous grin already spreading across his face.

"Hello, dear," he says. When he comes in, Crowley hasn't moved from the doorway. Aziraphale huffs a little, just for the show of it, and obliges Crowley under the mistletoe.

"Brought you something," Crowley says when he pulls back. He hands Aziraphale a small bundle, wrapped in butcher paper. "I know we decorated the tree already, but trust me, you need this."

Curious, Aziraphale opens the paper. Inside are two ornaments, made of painted ceramic—a scale model of the Bentley, and a towering stack of books that bears a striking resemblance to the "to read" pile upstairs.

"It's us, see?" Crowley says, rather unnecessarily. "Took me ages to find—all right, fine, you caught me," he corrects when Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. "I commissioned them, what of it?"

" _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale breathes out. He's just—so _touched_ that he actually feels tears welling up in his eyes and a great urge to embrace Crowley as tight as he can. Which, he realizes, he can do now, and does so.

"Aw, come on," Crowley says, even as he awkwardly sets the ornaments down on a nearby bookshelf and pats Aziraphale's back. "Wasn't that big of a deal, really." Aziraphale can hear the pleased smile in his voice, though, and that's enough.

He disengages himself from Crowley after another moment and brushes the wrinkles out of the front of his shirt—pulling away several stray tears in the process, he notes with some slight embarrassment. Then, gently, Aziraphale picks up the Bentley ornament.

"I think we should hang these in pride of place, don't you?" He takes a breath before voicing his next thought. "I want everyone to know that we belong together."

"This is Soho," Crowley says. "I'm fairly sure they already do. Mrs. Henderson down the street keeps asking when I'm going to make an honest man out of you."

Aziraphale blushes at that—it's so close to what he wants, but not yet, not _yet_. "Nevertheless," he says, and walks over to the tree, where he moves around the glass ornaments to make a space right in front.

They hang the two ornaments there, in orbit around each other, close enough to touch. When they're done, Crowley's arm finds its way around Aziraphale's shoulder, and Aziraphale feels his temple being kissed in what feels like a moment of impulsivity.

"There we are," Crowley says. He sounds satisfied. "I ought to find that artist again and tip her double what I already paid her. The craftsmanship is really something."

Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand and concentrates, seeking until he finds his target. Distance miracles aren't easy or precise, but it can be done if he or Crowley know what they're looking for. "I think she'll have a very good year."


	18. Cookies

" _Blast_ it!" Crowley exclaims. He's trying to bake the human way—look, even a demon needs hobbies in retirement—and it's not going well, to say the least. It sucks, in fact, because he's just managed to burn his third batch. The second batch was completely undercooked in the middle, and he doesn't even want to _talk_ about his first attempt.

"Crowley? Are you in there?"

Crowley blesses under his breath and drags a hand across his face, realizing too late that he's now streaked himself with flour. "Yeah, in the kitchen! Come on back, you may as well."

After a minute, Aziraphale pokes his head in the doorway. "Goodness," he says, looking around at the wreck of Crowley's kitchen. "What have you been up to?"

"I should think that would be obvious," Crowley snipes back. He winces at his tone, even though Aziraphale doesn't look bothered. "Sorry. Long day."

"Perfectly understandable, dearheart," Aziraphale says, and oh, that's a new one, isn't it? Crowley decides he likes it and beckons Aziraphale to come closer.

"It won't come right," he explains when Aziraphale comes to inspect the damage, trying not to sound petulant. "This shouldn't be that hard, right? I mean, even human children can do it."

Aziraphale picks up one of the burned biscuits and nibbles on one of the better edges. "Don't be so hard on yourself, you're making a very good first attempt. What kind of biscuits are they, anyway? Reminds me a bit of...."

"The Greek honey ones we used to get, do you remember?" Crowley smiles as Aziraphale's eyes light up in recognition. "Had a bit of a craving."

"Crowley, that was centuries ago."

"Still," Crowley says. He reaches out and twines his fingers with Aziraphale's. "I was thinking about the last time we ate them together, sitting on the roof of that temple. You looked gorgeous in a chiton, I'll have you know."

"Oh, stop," Aziraphale says, blushing and smiling back in the way that means _please, flatter me some more, I insist_. Later, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale squeezes his hand and continues, "Well, you've got to adjust the proportions for these modern ingredients, for a start. Do you have a recipe?"

Crowley hesitates before answering. "Obviously." It's not exactly a lie—he did, a few times, sit with the women and watched while they baked. It's just that no one ever wrote it down, so he's relying on his (very good) demonic memory.

"Do you have a recipe that was written _this century_?" Aziraphale asks again, more severely, which Crowley thinks is a bit rich, coming from him. "For goodness' sake, you have Greek neighbors. Just downstairs, at the end of the hall."

Crowley's brain gets stuck, then, on Aziraphale knowing the people in his building better than he does. Of the idea of Aziraphale making himself at home here, in this new arrangement they've got.

"It's more fun to bother you," Crowley says, instead of getting into all of that. He pulls out his phone and skims, lightning fast, through recipe blog search results until he finds something approximating the ancient one he remembers. "There, recipe. Will you help me now?"

Aziraphale is already rolling up his sleeves and reaching for an apron Crowley's certain he never had before. It has tartan trim, naturally.

"My dear, of course I will," Aziraphale says, beaming. "Just tell me what you need."

The fourth batch is perfect, and even Aziraphale the epicure pronounces them very close to the original. Despite the cold, they eat them on the roof of Crowley's building, trading memories of old times and watching the sun go down over the city. Crowley shifts a bit closer under the blanket covering their laps and thanks anyone who's listening for Aziraphale, that someone can know him so well and still want to be with him.

Aziraphale moves closer still, wraps an arm around Crowley, and pulls him in tight. They stay like that long after they should have been chilled to the bone, long after the sun has set and the rest of the stars have made an appearance, before finally heading inside to warm up in Crowley's bed.

"I liked this. Making something with you," Aziraphale says once they're back in the flat. "We never really got the chance before, did we?"

"Lucky for us, we're full of second chances," Crowley says. "All the time in the world, now."

He kisses Aziraphale, just because he's there, and tastes honey on his lips. This, too, is a marvel Crowley will never tire of.

"Let's go to bed," Crowley says. "You can think of new stuff for us to do tomorrow."


	19. Wish

Even though it's the middle of December, they're sat on a blanket together, watching the stars. Crowley insisted, and Aziraphale has never once had the heart to refuse him when he gets in a mood like that, not when Crowley's been so indulgent of all his whims. And particularly not if it seems like Crowley's going to work himself into a state if Aziraphale doesn't come admire the stars with him that very moment.

Besides, it's _nice_ to sit with Crowley, tucked under his arm while Crowley uses his free hand to gesture expansively at the sky and explains truths of the universe that, Aziraphale is sure, would astound scholars of the right disciplines. To him, around twenty percent of Crowley's explanations sounds like utter nonsense (the rest is just simple maths with a dash of divine will), but he likes hearing Crowley tell it, even the parts he's heard before.

Most of the time, anyway.

"That's _not_ true, and I know it, because I was there," Aziraphale protests. "Well. I was there afterwards and happened to overhear. _But_ ," he presses on, "that's definitely not the version I heard from Michael."

Crowley, who's been spinning a tale for the past several minutes, raises his eyebrows and gives him a lazy, one-sided smile. A wiling smile, Aziraphale thinks. "C'mon, who are you gonna believe, her or me?"

"You, of course, if it comes down to it," Aziraphale says. "But in this instance, you've got to admit that your story just doesn't hold up to scrutiny."

"Fine," Crowley concedes, scowling. "Her version wasn't much better, though. The truth is that we both tripped and blamed it on each other, and now that nebula's gone all sideways. Look, see just there?"

Aziraphale tries, but he just sees the swirling clouds of space matter and the surrounding stars. "It's lovely," he says. " _You're_ lovely," he adds, because Crowley needs to hear it more.

It's not often that Crowley wants to talk about Heaven, or what he did up there, chiefly shaping the night sky into being. Of course, it wasn't the sky then, and Crowley wasn't Crowley yet. He was just an angel in the ranks, same as Aziraphale.

They're the same again now, he reflects. Just two celestial bodies, whiling the night away together.

" _Stop_ ," Crowley protests, but he's foregone his sunglasses, so Aziraphale can see that his eyes are dancing with laughter. He kisses the crinkles just there, at the corner of Crowley's eye, then shifts a bit closer and wraps his arm around him.

"You know," Aziraphale says, "there's the human tradition of wishing on shooting stars."

"Meteors. Space garbage," Crowley says, like he can't help himself.

"Yes, well," Aziraphale continues, "my point is, if I saw one now, I don't believe I'd know what to wish for. I already have you, and my shop of course, and your infernal car—"

As he says this, Crowley lifts his head and stares at him, and when Aziraphale glances up, there's an absolutely astounded expression on Crowley's face. "What?" Aziraphale demands.

Crowley shakes his head, and some of the poleaxed look fades. "Nothing! It—it catches me out, sometimes, that's all. This. Us. You, saying terribly romantic things to me."

Aziraphale squeezes his arm around Crowley's middle. "Then I shall have to keep on doing it, so that you can get used to it."

"Never happen," Crowley says, his voice low. "Kiss me, Aziraphale."

It doesn't take much to close the distance between them, just a slight angle adjustment and a leaning in, and then they're kissing under the starlight, mouths falling open against each other, tongues sliding in. When they break apart, Aziraphale happens to catch a glimpse of a shooting star out of the corner of his eye.

"Make a wish," says Crowley, who must have seen it, too. And then their mouths find each other again, and truly, Aziraphale thinks, this is all he wants, right here, forever.


	20. Reindeer

"This is a petting zoo," Crowley observes. He sneezes, pointedly, in Aziraphale's direction. Unfortunately, Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice.

"Bless you," Aziraphale says distractedly. "Oh—I'm sorry, dear."

Crowley sneezes again, this time from the magic prickling over his skin. Serves him right, taking up with an angel like this.

He sighs, loops his arm through Aziraphale's, and steers him away from a llama that looks like it very much wants to spit on Aziraphale. "Never mind that. Why are we at a petting zoo, pray tell?"

"Fun!" Aziraphale says.

Crowley thinks about this for half a second, then starts ticking off on his fingers. "You don't like children—"

"Only when they're loud and sticky—"

"You don't like animal smells, or animal leavings—"

"Well, really, apart from farmers, who does?"

"And you _don't_ like traipsing about in the grass and dirt in your Oxfords, and you especially try to avoid situations where you're likely to be scratched, bitten, or chewed on at any moment," Crowley finishes triumphantly. " _Oi_ , watch the coat, it's vintage!" he yells at a goat, who starts to make a move on Aziraphale's clothing as they pass by. The goat just bleats accusingly at them, which Crowley feels illustrates his point nicely.

Aziraphale presses his teeth against his lower lip, just for a moment. "They've got reindeer," he says at last. "I thought I'd like to see what all the fuss was about."

This is so nonsensical that it puts Crowley off bickering and gives him cause to stop in the middle of the path, during which Aziraphale recovers his arm from Crowley's clutches. "All the fuss about what? You've got to know they don't fly."

" _Obviously_." Aziraphale rolls his eyes in that particular bitchy way that, somehow, always gets to Crowley. "I just want to see them. It's festive. We're being festive this year."

This is how, several minutes later, Crowley finds himself staring down a great herd beast, which stares placidly back at them.

There are several reindeer in the pen, being petted by small children and their guardians or coaxed into standing still for photographs with said families. It's all very much the kind of tableau that Crowley's instincts and habits tell him he should make slightly worse for everyone around him. He resists the urge and focuses on Aziraphale, who is—yes, petting the reindeer.

"The fur is softer than I would have thought," Aziraphale says. "Crowley, do you want to try?"

Crowley grimaces. There's also a long-buried serpent part of him that tells him to slither away very fast before he's trampled under the beast's hooves and forced to fill out paperwork. He resists that, too, and reaches out and gingerly strokes the reindeer's forehead. It is, indeed, quite soft. Sort of velvety.

Aziraphale beams at him, and that makes the whole venture worthwhile, even when Aziraphale coaxes him into taking a selfie of them with the deer. Crowley makes it his new lock screen.

"Well, that was fun," Crowley says later as they walk away, back to the car.

"It was, wasn't it?" Aziraphale says, buoyant.

When Crowley cuts a disbelieving look over at him, Aziraphale sighs. "I just like doing things with you," he explains. "It didn't have to be this, although I do think there's not much point anymore in avoiding things that push us out of our comfort zones, is there? But Crowley, I just—I just want—"

He looks frustrated, like there's something he wants to say but can't quite get the shape of it. Crowley waits.

"I just want to keep on spending time with you, like this," Aziraphale says at last. "I don't want you to leave, not ever."

Crowley senses something bigger behind his words, something huge and important, but carefully doesn't open that door. Not yet. He hip checks Aziraphale instead.

"Not going anywhere, angel," he says. "Even if you do smell of reindeer."

"Oh, do you think?" Aziraphale asks anxiously, bringing his arm up to his face to check, and Crowley throws his head back and laughs.


	21. Gift

Aziraphale is nervous.

They've had dinner at the Ritz, and drunk quite a bit of champagne and wine, and exchanged solstice gifts by Aziraphale's little tree. And through it all, Aziraphale's carried a nervousness with him. He feels it buzzing under his skin, making his voice shake just a touch and his hands flutter more than they ought.

He wants to do this. He's _going_ to do this, and the sooner, the better.

"Shall we open another bottle?" Crowley asks. "Or we could go back to mine, and I'll break out the mead."

"No," Aziraphale says, more firmly than he means. Crowley tilts his head questioningly. "Or, I mean—yes, of course, but—there's something I want to do first. With you."

Crowley's inquisitive look relaxes into a leering grin. "Whatever it is, you know all you have to do is ask."

"I'm _trying_ ," Aziraphale says. "Just—stop talking, please."

He crosses the room to his desk, opens the secret compartment, and takes out the tiny gift-wrapped box. He nearly drops it, trying to hand it off to Crowley, but Crowley recovers it nicely and, shooting another questioning look at Aziraphale, opens it.

"Angel, this is a ring." 

"Yes." Aziraphale twists his fingers together. "Oh, do you like it? I've had it for ages, and I always thought it would suit you, but if you don't, I'm sure I can—"

"Angel." Crowley's tone has turned very serious and gentle, almost dangerously so. "I love the ring. Is there something you want to tell me about why you're giving me a _ring_ , that, based on the metalwork, you've apparently had for _centuries_?"

Aziraphale drops his hands, then, and meets Crowley's gaze head-on. He _wants _this. He wants Crowley, for good. No more games.__

____

____

"I suppose I am getting a bit ahead of myself," he says, before taking a step forward and dropping to one knee in front of Crowley, because that's traditional, in this time and place. He hears Crowley let out an involuntary gasp. "Crowley. My love, I _adore_ you. It's such a human thing, I know, but—would you do me the honor?"

Aziraphale watches as Crowley blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again, and opens it to say, "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious," Aziraphale says, and he is, he _is_. "Really now, I wouldn't kid about a thing like this."

"You're asking me," Crowley says. He looks stunned and happy, both of which Aziraphale takes as good signs. "You're _asking_ me. Hang on," he says, "the other day, you said you wanted to _ask me something_ , and then you didn't... that was what, your pre-proposal? You've tried a dozen times this week. You tried to ask me _yesterday_."

"Just picking my moment," Aziraphale says, taking Crowley's hands. "The solstice was quite romantic and auspicious, I thought."

Crowley nods a few times in succession. "It is. Yeah. This is—a lot."

"You don't have to answer right away—"

"No, no, I want to," Crowley says. "I don't care how silly and human it makes us. I want to _marry_ you, Aziraphale. We're doing this." He hesitates. "That is the question you meant, isn't it?"

"My love," Aziraphale says again. There are tears in his eyes, suddenly, like his body can't hold all the emotion he feels for Crowley. "Of course it is. Marry me, Crowley, for goodness' sake."

Forever, when one is immortal, is, well, it's _forever_. But he and Crowley have been tied together since the very start, for all he's tried to deny it. This would just be making it official, in a sense: promises laid down on top of the bonds they've already forged together. Unbreakable.

Gently, Aziraphale takes the ring box from Crowley. He's still holding Crowley's other hand, and, with a hushed reverence, he slides the ring onto Crowley's finger, then presses his lips just there. It's a perfect fit; Aziraphale wouldn't have accepted anything less.

Crowley takes in the ring on his finger, tilting his hand this way and that, before breaking into a brilliant grin.

"I've got one for you, too, you know," Crowley admits in the hushed stillness of the moment. He hauls Aziraphale to his feet, and Aziraphale lets himself be pulled up but stays there once he's standing, his hands finding their way to Crowley's waist. "Never thought this would actually, you know, _happen_. I almost got rid of it a dozen times, truth be told."

Aziraphale laughs and grips on tighter. "So did I," he assures Crowley. "Particularly when I was cross with you. But we got here in the end, didn't we?"

"That we did," Crowley murmurs, leaning in.

They seal their new arrangement with a kiss. This is followed by more kisses, and Aziraphale being pushed up against his own bookshelves with Crowley's tongue in his mouth, and the suggestion that perhaps they ought to continue the celebration upstairs, where they have a bed.

Later, much later, they're curled around each other, bodies tangled and interlocking. Aziraphale has taken possession of Crowley's hand again.

"We're _engaged_ ," he says, admiring the look of the ring on Crowley's hand. It suits him better than Aziraphale could have hoped, and even more so because of what it means. "I did that."

" _We_ did that," Crowley grumbles, but he doesn't pull away, and he doesn't stop smiling.

Aziraphale nuzzles into Crowley's chest, where his head is already resting. "Right you are. Happy solstice, Crowley."

"The happiest one yet," Crowley murmurs, and Aziraphale feels lips being pressed against his hair before they both drift off.


	22. Warmth

The first thing Crowley registers when he wakes up is _warm_. The second thing is that he has one of Aziraphale's feathers in his mouth, and he spits it out. He doesn't even remember either of them letting their wings out, but they must have done in the night, because they're surrounded by a blanket of their own black and white feathers.

The third thing—and this one is really important—is the new, not yet familiar weight of the ring on his finger.

He and Aziraphale are _engaged_.

It's a funny thing, being engaged when you're a demon. It's a bit like play-acting at being a human, and a bit like feeling smug because when he and Aziraphale say forever, they'll really _mean_ it in a way a human could never touch.

But that's all down the road. What matters right now is Aziraphale in bed with him, radiating heat and joy that warms Crowley inside and out. Aziraphale is still sleeping, which never happens, and Crowley takes a minute just to watch him.

They've turned onto their sides in the night, to give the wings space to breathe. Aziraphale's head is still pillowed against Crowley's chest, though, golden-white hair lit by the weak early morning sun making its way past Aziraphale's heavy curtains. Crowley snuggles closer and begins petting through his soft curls, which causes Aziraphale to stir.

"Mmmph." Aziraphale fumbles for Crowley's face, and when he finds it, drags him down for a kiss. "Mmmm. Good morning. Did you know, we're getting married?"

"I was there," Crowley says, stealing another kiss. "I seem to recall something along those lines, followed by a bit of crying and some truly fantastic sex. And this, of course." He lifts his hand enough to show off the ring.

At the sight of it, Aziraphale really looks like he might start crying again. "We're getting _married_ ," he says again, in an awed tone. "Crowley, I'm so happy. When should we do it, do you think?"

They resume their previous position while Crowley thinks about it, Aziraphale cuddled into his chest, Crowley playing with Aziraphale's hair.

"If you don't mind, I'd prefer to wait until the city thaws out," Crowley says at last. "It's too bloody cold out there. Besides which, I'd like to marry you outdoors, in a garden or the park, and everything's dormant now."

He sneaks a peek at Aziraphale's face, to check his reaction, but Aziraphale still looks blissfully overcome by emotion. "A spring anniversary sounds lovely," Aziraphale decides, and then it's Crowley's turn to get all choked up.

They'll have an _anniversary_. They can have a life together, just the two of them. He drops his head so that his mouth is next to Aziraphale's ear.

"You'll look gorgeous," Crowley promises, directly into the sensitive skin there. Aziraphale gives a whole body wiggle at the sensation, and Crowley nips playfully at his earlobe. "Spring flowers all in your hair, if you'll let me. It's not exactly the done thing, but neither are we."

Aziraphale smiles, eyes shut, as if he's imagining it—which he probably is. "You'll be radiant, no matter what you wear," Aziraphale says. "My love. My own. My beautiful darling."

Crowley kisses him, then, because how can he not? They fall into a comfortable silence, just enjoying the warmth and nearness in their embrace. Crowley's hands wander over Aziraphale's impossibly fluffy wings, and he spends a few minutes stroking and petting, burying his fingers in the soft feathers.

"Really, now," Aziraphale mumbles. He sounds drowsy and completely comfortable. "You could at least set them to rights, if you're going to do all that."

"Later," Crowley promises. "Do you want me to stop?" He makes his tone wicked, teasing, because Aziraphale will enjoy that as much as the fondling.

Sure enough, Aziraphale arches into his hand like a lazy cat. "Don't you _dare_."

Crowley laughs and trails his free hand down Aziraphale's spine, coming to rest on his side somewhere around his waist. He is so, so desperately in love—he doesn't think anyone's ever been this in love. "All right, then."

They wind up spending the whole of the morning after the solstice in bed, murmuring to each other and kissing and, eventually, making love. It's the most intense it's ever been, but the most joyous, too. Crowley gazes into Aziraphale's eyes during and knows that every ounce of love he feels is reciprocated with Aziraphale's whole silly, indulgent, gorgeous heart.

He supposes it is a bit of a magical time of year, really. A new start, another chance to do better, for everyone. The world is dark and cold outside, but here, in their haven, everything is full of light. He kisses Aziraphale's eyelids, his cheeks, the pads of his fingers, and holds on.


	23. Ghosts

There are certain things that, Aziraphale feels, the Victorians simply had the right idea about. The clothes, naturally. Smallpox vaccinations. Elaborate courting rituals. Novels finally catching on, and literacy in general. And, of course, the tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas.

"Look, you weren't _there_ ," Aziraphale snaps, an hour after having started to explain this to Crowley. "You didn't go to their parties. It was just something people did back then."

"I'm not necessarily opposed," Crowley starts again. "It just seems a bit weird and morbid, that's all. Creative, though."

"That was the Victorians," Aziraphale says primly. "Are you going to sit on the sofa or not?"

Crowley sits down and pats the seat next to him like Aziraphale's the one who needs convincing. "Fine. I like spooky, you know that. Hit me with your worst."

Aziraphale sits next to him, squashing into the corner. Crowley's sat in the middle and left the armrests open for him, all the better for pulling Crowley close when things get really macabre.

"Very well, then." Aziraphale thinks for a moment and tries to conjure all the most lurid images, the most fearsome tales he can remember. "It was a dark and stormy night."

Crowley scoffs. "No, it wasn't. That's what they all say."

"Hush," Aziraphale says, draping his arm around Crowley's shoulders. For all his protesting, Crowley is quick to lean over and settle in. "Who's telling this story?"

*

"So they never found the body?"

Crowley's eyes are wide, his tone hushed. He's fairly lying on top of Aziraphale now, and one of them has summoned a quilt from the chest upstairs, which Crowley is huddling under.

"Never," Aziraphale says gravely. "What's more, the governess was driven mad by visions of the ghostly child, and was never the same again."

"What about the other children?" Crowley asks. "The living ones, that is."

Aziraphale lets a small smile grace his lips. "Ah, they recovered from the ordeal, once they were safely away from the house. Except...."

"What?" Crowley is hanging on every word now; Aziraphale would laugh if he didn't feel so fond about the whole thing.

"Several years later, the youngest had a series of very strange dreams, which he could never remember upon waking but were, nevertheless, deeply disturbing," Aziraphale says. "On one particular morning, he was digging in the garden and unearthed...."

He pauses for dramatic effect, watching Crowley's face, then continues. "...A tiny skull. A _child's_ skull. And _no one knew where it came from_. The youngest insisted that it belonged to the child who had so afflicted their poor governess, and that the spirit had followed them from the manor house, but no one would listen, and the dreams continued.

"Eventually, the skull was buried in the woods, so as to have got rid of it. The dreams stopped, then, but the youngest never would go near that forest again, and if one was to go walking there at night... well, they, too, might encounter the spirit of the wailing ghost child, never truly put to rest."

Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, then, a real smile. "Well, my dear? What did you think?"

"Okay," Crowley says. "You got me. I am thoroughly creeped out, and that never happens."

"I thought so," Aziraphale says, trying not to sound too self-satisfied. "Would you like to tell one now?"

"Hmmm. All right," Crowley says, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. He sits up, but doesn't move away, and drapes the quilt over them both. "No judging, now. I don't have the benefit of practice."

Aziraphale caresses his knee under the quilt. "You'll do just fine. I promise to be _very_ scared of whatever you conjure up."

Crowley scowls. "That doesn't help," he says, but he loses some of his tension all the same. "All right, here goes. Once upon a time—"

Aziraphale can't help but interrupt. "I thought you said I was being cliche?"

"Will you just _listen_?" Crowley shoots back. "Honestly. _Once upon a time_ , in a world a lot like this one but slightly worse, there was this one guy, and he was having an awfully bad day...."


	24. Holiday Card

"We've had a card," Aziraphale announces. He looks up from his desk, where he's sorting the post, and holds up the envelope for Crowley to see.

"What do you mean, we?" Crowley asks, not budging from his spot on the sofa. "This is the bookshop address."

He feels a warm flutter inside, though, at the idea of co-addressed mail and the thought of people knowing to look for him here, in Aziraphale's space. In his _fiance_ 's old bookshop. It's tempered slightly by the icy fear of their former employers finding them, but he tamps that feeling back down where it belongs.

"Yes, but it's definitely to both of us," Aziraphale says. He carefully slices open the envelope with a vintage letter opener and pulls out the card. "It says... oh, good Lord, it's from Adam."

Crowley snaps to attention at that and stretches out a hand. "Hand it over, then."

The front of the card features a rocket ship in space, improbably festooned with fairy lights. Inside, Adam has drawn a dinosaur, one of the carnivorous ones, with wings sprouting from its back—one light, one dark—and handwritten them a note around the pre-printed text that says _Blasting off to a stellar Christmas!_

"'Dear Mr. Aziraphale and Mr. Crowley,'" Crowley reads, "'I hope you have a wicked Christmas and a brilliant New Year's. Things are great with me and Dog and the others. We're learning how to roller skate, and I wrote another book, but my teacher said it was rubbish. Thanks for everything and all.'" He looks up at Aziraphale, feeling a tension unspooling inside him. "It's signed, 'your friend, Adam.'"

Aziraphale looks similarly relieved. "It sounds like he's developing into a bright, creative young man," he says hopefully. "He seems to remember more than is good for him, but I'm not sure how much we could have done about that." Aziraphale waves a hand vaguely. "Human brains are so... finicky. And his even more so."

"He's taking it in stride, anyway." Crowley hands the card back to Aziraphale, who takes another look at it before sliding it back into its envelope and tucking it safely away in the file box that holds the rest of his important correspondence. Crowley's letters have their own folder in there. Heaven's not in it.

"We'll just have to see what happens from here, I suppose," Aziraphale muses. "Oh, I'm so glad you'll be by my side for all that's to come. I don't believe I've told you today."

Crowley smiles and kicks his feet up on Aziraphale's chair. "Me, too, angel. Should we send him a card back, do you think?"

"Mmm. Best not," Aziraphale says. "I am glad he's all right, but I don't think encouraging a friendship at this stage is wise, do you? He's still so _impressionable_."

"And we haven't lost any of _our_ abilities," Crowley adds, seeing what Aziraphale is getting at. "If anything, having us hanging around could send him back down that path. Nah, best leave him to keep growing up human, like the rest of them have to do."

"Precisely," Aziraphale says, smiling gratefully at him.

Crowley nudges him with his toes. "Things are really looking up for us, eh? We saved the world—"

"I thought we agreed that technically, we didn't."

"We got to retire—"

"I think the closest human terms for what actually happened are 'let go' or 'fired.'"

"Will you just let me have this?" Crowley scowls, but immediately lets his face soften. "Anyway, we've got each other, and you can't tell me not to be happy about that."

Aziraphale gives Crowley's foot a squeeze. "I wouldn't dream of it."

A look crosses Aziraphale's face, and then he very suddenly abandons his seat in favor of climbing into Crowley's lap, facing him. This is such a rare and unexpected occurrence that all Crowley can do at first is gaze adoringly at him while one of his hands comes up to brace Aziraphale's back, seemingly on instinct.

"You were too far away," Aziraphale says, looping his arms around Crowley's neck and drawing him in. "I missed you, even though you were right there."

Crowley leans in and pecks him on the lips, then the upturned tip of his nose. "Thanks to Adam, we've found the cure for that sort of feeling."

"Hmmm." Aziraphale's mouth meets his again. "I rather think we figured this one out all on our own."


	25. Love

"Happy Christmas," Aziraphale whispers as he slides over in bed, draping his arm around Crowley's middle. Crowley is still sleeping, and Aziraphale knows he doesn't care about the holiday for its own sake, but it's nice to have a reason to get close. He buries his nose in Crowley's neck and smiles contentedly.

After a few minutes, Crowley stretches and turns over so that he's the one doing the embracing. "Morning," Crowley says. He reaches out to cup Aziraphale's jawline, squinting at him but smiling. "Bank holiday today, is it?"

"Oh, you," Aziraphale says. There's mistletoe affixed to Crowley's headboard, somehow—it wasn't there when they went to bed, and Aziraphale certainly didn't do it—and with a glance at it, he opens his mouth against Crowley's.

They're good at it now, this kissing thing. It's comfortable now, familiar, to lie here together in their bed in Crowley's flat and just make out for the sheer joy of it, for both the frisson of desire and the feeling of coming home.

Eventually, their kisses slow, and they go back to holding each other and smiling like fools—or, at least, Aziraphale thinks that he must be. Crowley, as ever, looks perfect, even with his lips swollen and his hair all tousled. Maybe especially so.

"What would you normally do of a Christmas? If none of this had happened?" Aziraphale asks.

"You mean before it all started, and before Warlock and all?" Crowley seems to think about it for a minute. "Lie low, usually. All that fake good cheer makes me itch. Although I do always appreciate the schadenfreude of watching people having to play nice with relations they can't stand." He nudges Aziraphale. "What about you?"

Aziraphale, too, has to take a minute and think back to over a decade ago. He was so wrong, then, about almost everything. "Blessings," he recalls. "All over the city. Sometimes assigned, sometimes not. With all the love everywhere, it always felt like a good time to bring people some extra cheer. Especially the less fortunate among us."

"You should have called. I would have helped," Crowley says. His hold tightens, as if to express that he knows why Aziraphale didn't and couldn't. Then he suddenly sits up, ignoring Aziraphale's protests. "Let's go now."

"What? Go where?" Aziraphale demands, bemusedly watching Crowley get out of bed and dress himself with a snap. The time for lying about is well and truly over, then. With a sigh, Aziraphale follows his example, but he pulls on a heavy woolen jumper he left at Crowley's instead of bothering with his waistcoat and tie.

Crowley grins at him. "Like you said. Blessings for those that need them. We can be mysterious holiday benefactors." He walks around the bed and kisses Aziraphale on the cheek. "You're brilliant, you know that?"

"You're brilliant," Aziraphale counters, pecking Crowley on the lips, and they smile at each other and go out into the city.

If anyone Above or Below was foolish enough to audit their miracles, Aziraphale thinks later, they would find that quite a number of them were used in making shelters sturdier, in bringing food to the hungry, in helping lonely hearts rest easier.

Aziraphale tempts Crowley into a spot of property destruction, in the form of removing spikes from doorways and arm rests from benches (it hardly takes any convincing), and Crowley encourages him to spend some time just talking with people and listening to their stories, which Aziraphale rarely takes the time to do. There's love here, too, in the connections formed, in the care people have for each other.

They spend the day among the homeless population of London, and at the end of it, drained but pleased, they go back to Crowley's flat and pass a bottle back and forth, not even bothering with glasses.

"Well, I call that a job well done, at least for today," Aziraphale says. He leans against Crowley's side and lets the bottle slip from his fingers to rest on the floor. "I'm glad you were here to push me. Sometimes I think, you know, we ought to be doing more than just living."

Crowley's pensive for a moment, then says, "It's not up to us to save the world, angel." Aziraphale twists to give him a look, and Crowley sighs and waves a hand dismissively. "I mean—not in the world-ending sense. In the day to day sense. The humans have got to work that out. But we _can_ help. You showed me that, back when we first came up with our little arrangement. Eleventh century, was it?"

"How did I show you?" Aziraphale asks.

"I never told you?" Crowley pulls him closer and rests his cheek on the crown of Aziraphale's head. "It was that job I took for you in Iceland, because I said I hadn't been to Iceland since the Vikings were big, and you said, 'well, if you're going anyway, you may as well do some good while you're over there, you vile, sexy tempter, you.'"

Aziraphale laughs. "Stop. I never. I _wouldn't_."

"All right, fine, but you did make sure to point out that I was practically twisting your arm," Crowley says, poking him. "Anyway, that wasn't what got me, it was the part about doing good. We may as well do some good, while we're living here on Earth. But it's not our job to fix things."

"I love you," Aziraphale says, because it quite suddenly needs to be said. "I love you, and I love that you love the world as much as I do, and I want to keep living in it with you."

He feels Crowley turn his head, so that his lips are brushing Aziraphale's hair. "We will. I promise you we will. I love you, too."

"That's settled, then," Aziraphale says, and he curls closer into Crowley's side.


	26. Cider

"There's a cider bar just opened a block away from you," Crowley observes.

"Mmm," Aziraphale says.

He comes over to kiss Crowley under the mistletoe and accept the bag of pastries Crowley's brought back with him, then retreats to the back. Crowley stays slouching in the doorway for a moment, then goes to stretch out on the couch, kicking his feet up on the armrest. Aziraphale is already sitting there, and Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale's lap while he continues his rant.

"Can't stand cider bars, or craft beers. They're so… fashionable." Crowley scrunches his nose. "Can't stand the people who make a lifestyle of going to them, either. Easily impressionable enough that they should be easy pickings for a good tempting, but so smug and self-possessed about it that it's not any fun."

Aziraphale's fingers slip through his hair, and Crowley leans into the touch. He pulls his sunglasses off and squints up at Aziraphale, who takes them from him and sets them on a rogue stack of books. "Angel, tell me the truth. Am I becoming uncool? Is this what it feels like?"

"You'd certainly know better than me," Aziraphale says. "I've always thought you to be the height of style and modernity. Pastry?" He tears off a bite of apple strudel and holds it where Crowley can see it.

"You're biased," Crowley grumbles. "Give that here."

He opens his mouth to accept the pastry from Aziraphale's fingers, making sure to swirl his tongue around them, and chews thoughtfully. "Do you ever think," he ventures after a few minutes of silence, during which Aziraphale resumes the hair petting, "we might be outgrowing the city life? Or that the city might be outpacing _us_?"

"It might be nice to get away for a while," Aziraphale muses. "It would certainly be nice if we could find somewhere we could live together. All this back and forth is getting extremely bothersome."

"Yeah, see, I was thinking about that, too," Crowley says. "We need more space _and_ fewer hipsters. Something to ponder, then."

"Mmm," Aziraphale says again.

They eat through the rest of the pastries—Crowley takes all of his bites from Aziraphale's hand, tipping his head back onto Aziraphale's thigh. He's thinking about growing his hair out again, maybe for the wedding. And if that's in part so that Aziraphale has more to run his fingers through, well, there's no one left who would dare judge them.

"Well, I'm off," Crowley says after a bit, although he hasn't moved from the sofa. "Going to have a look at the cider bar. Apples were my thing first, you know." He taps Aziraphale's knee. "Want to come? You can try to thwart me like in the old days. Or you can just make that appalled-but-somehow-into-it face you had in the Garden."

Aziraphale's mouth drops open, and, oh, yep, that's the one. Crowley _adores_ him. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"Yeah, you are," Crowley says, swinging his legs onto the floor and sitting up. "C'mon, you can tell me why you think I'm wrong on the way. I need to go torment people who think they're better than everyone else."

"I thought this was about the cider?" Aziraphale asks as they walk back through the bookshop.

"Angel. It was _never_ about the cider," Crowley says with a grin.

He's thinking about a new kind of garden now, for after they move. Something he can tend or let grow wild as he pleases, something without any _blessed_ apple trees in it. Or maybe he will have one, and he and Aziraphale can make their own strudel and pie and cider, and grow wiser purely as a result of sharing a life together.

It's a nice thought. He lets it carry him all the way to the cider bar, and in the end, he doesn't torment anyone at all.


	27. Champagne

Aziraphale still doesn't have an engagement ring.

It's not—it's not like it _bothers_ him. It's not like it means Crowley is any less devoted, or that Crowley doesn't really want to get married, or any silly thing like that that Aziraphale's brain could conjure up if he let himself get maudlin enough.

But it's just—Crowley _said_ , when they got engaged, that there was a ring, and in the days since, he keeps expecting Crowley to turn to him and slip it on his finger. He's even started, shamefully enough, absently rubbing his ring finger, where he would fiddle with the ring if he had it.

It's not that he needs it, to know that Crowley loves him. But it would be nice to have the physical token, proof of their relationship to anyone who notices. Something to remind him of Crowley whenever they're apart.

So when Crowley, uncharacteristically nervous, suggests dinner at the Ritz that evening, Aziraphale is hoping.

"Great! Fantastic," Crowley says when Aziraphale accepts. "I need to do... some stuff. Alone. But I'll swing back and pick you up later?"

"It's a date," Aziraphale says, smiling at him.

There's really no point in opening the shop a mere two days after Christmas, Aziraphale decides, so he spends the day puttering, reorganizing, and, when a fit of fancy hits him around three, paying a visit to his barber. He doesn't actually need someone to trim his hair or shave him, of course, but he likes the company, and he wants to feel his best.

Crowley picks him up at half-six, still looking nervous. His hair is all ruffled, although attractively so. Aziraphale reaches over and squeezes his hand once he's situated in the car, and Crowley lets out a slow breath and smiles shakily.

"Let's have dinner," he says.

So they go to the Ritz, and Crowley asks that they be sat in a cozy and private corner table, instead of their usual one overlooking the restaurant. Over champagne, Crowley starts fiddling in his pocket. Aziraphale's breath catches. Crowley must notice, because he gives Aziraphale a wry grin.

"You've caught me," Crowley says. He withdraws a velvet box, just the size for a ring. "I was going to do this over dessert, but I've made you wait long enough, I think."

"More than," Aziraphale informs him. He's aiming for severe, but in the face of Crowley proposing to him, it doesn't come out that way at all.

"Right, then." Crowley pulls off his sunglasses, right there in the middle of the Ritz, and reaches over and takes both of his hands. Aziraphale feels a thrill pass through him. "Aziraphale. I have loved you since the Earth began, and I've spent a lot of that time trying not to, but here we are anyway. And yes, I'm aware we're already engaged, but—marry me, angel. Someone knows, I can't do this without you, not any of it."

He opens the box and reveals the ring, which is gold and nearly as much of an antique as the one Crowley's wearing now. Aziraphale feels tears spring to his traitorous eyes as he nods and Crowley puts it on him.

"It's yours," Crowley says. "It was always meant for you. Just didn't think I'd ever get the chance. Look, it's perfect."

Aziraphale gazes down at the ring, turns his hand this way and that to test the weight, watches the metal catch the light, and is suddenly overcome with so much emotion that he's very glad Crowley insisted on secluding them tonight. He throws himself at Crowley and buries his head in Crowley's chest, uncaring of the public spectacle he must be making.

"Are you going to cry every time we get engaged?" Crowley asks, sounding amused but fond. One of his hands has come up to stroke Aziraphale's hair, and that's enough for Aziraphale to get his bearings back.

"That depends," Aziraphale asks once he's pulled himself together. When he looks over at Crowley again, he's resumed his sunglasses, and his smile is crooked and lovestruck. "How many more times do you see this happening?"

"Well, you never actually said yes," Crowley points out. "You nodded, but you didn't say it. Also," he continues, "there's vow renewals. I could steal your ring back and propose to you again a century from now."

Aziraphale gazes at Crowley while he's talking and feels his love for him swell to the point where he can hardly stand it, feels it settle against his heart and write itself there like an affirmation. _I love him, I love him, I love him._

"Yes," Aziraphale says, feeling a smile overtake his face. "I'll marry you now, and I'll marry you a hundred years from now, and as often as you like."

Then he leans over and kisses Crowley, because the pressure inside him is too great, because he can't do anything else. Crowley catches up his face with both hands and deepens the kiss; his teeth graze Aziraphale's bottom lip when he pulls back. Discreetly, Aziraphale crosses his legs under the table.

"Well," he says brightly, ignoring Crowley's knowing smirk, "I think an event such as this calls for more champagne, don't you?"

Crowley lifts his glass. "What shall we toast?"

"To us," Aziraphale says firmly. He lifts his own glass. "To making it this far. To standing by each other."

"To us, then," Crowley says.

They do the couples toast, with their arms twined around each other's, and trade private, adoring looks over the glasses. Aziraphale feels as light and bubbly inside as the champagne itself. Earlier this year, he would have said that he probably wasn't allowed to be this happy. Now, the year is almost to a close, and everything is different, all for the better.

He traces the metalwork of his engagement ring and leans over to peck Crowley on the cheek, just for the sake of kissing him. "I know we came for dinner, but do you think they would let us skip to dessert? I'm suddenly quite eager to be home with you."

Crowley grins crookedly, a rakish look that suits him. "Angel, stick with me, and I'll get you anything you want."


	28. Snowball

"Snow angels!" Crowley says again. "Or. Snow angel and snow demon. It doesn't _matter_ , just come outside with me!"

Aziraphale, who Crowley found rereading a Georgette Heyer novel at his desk, sets a bookmark in and peers at him over the top of his reading glasses, which Crowley knows full well are only there for the aesthetic. "Why are you suddenly so keen to go out into the snow? You've spent the entire season telling me how cold you are and trying to burrow into my coats."

Crowley feels himself blush. "I have not, and anyway, that's _not_ relevant," he says. He takes Aziraphale's hand—the one with the ring he put there, because he's not above using some tricks—in a loose hold. "I just want to play with you. It'll be fun. Please, I'm going stir crazy."

Aziraphale glances down at their hands. His mouth twitches, like he knows exactly what Crowley is doing and it's working, but he chooses not to call Crowley on it.

"Oh, all _right_ ," Aziraphale says. "Put your coat back on, at least."

Crowley attires them both in outerwear with a gesture, taking care not to forget the tartan scarf that's now become a staple of his winter wardrobe. It still smells like Aziraphale, just a little when he really burrows his face in it. He's thinking about leaving it under Aziraphale's pillow for a night or two. "Let's _go_ , c'mon."

There's fresh snow down, and Crowley bundles Aziraphale into the Bentley and drives them slightly outside the city to a suitable, snow-covered field, perfect for what he has in mind.

"Have you ever done this?" he asks Aziraphale, who shakes his head.

"Seen it done," Aziraphale offers. "Mostly by children, though."

"Right, so you know the basics," Crowley says. He jerks his head at the field. "Lie down there and wave your arms and legs."

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip, which Crowley finds unbearably attractive. "On the ground? Are you sure?"

"Positive," Crowley says. "I'm not sure if it'll work if they're not corporeal, but I also had the thought that you and I could use our wings as well. Humans can't do that, but we can."

His beloved still looks unsure about all of it, so Crowley moves to give a physical demonstration and lies down in the field, spread-eagle. "So just—"

He moves his limbs to create the shapes. On another plane, his wings move with them, and Crowley hopes that it's enough to impact the physical world.

"And then get up!" Crowley finishes. He springs from the ground, taking extra care not to step on his handiwork. "Don't worry, I'll help if you need it. And you don't have to do it at all if you don't want to, obviously."

"No, I want to," Aziraphale says. His voice has taken on a strange, dreamy quality. Crowley is about to ask him what the matter is, but he turns around and faces his snow angel instead.

It's a decent enough impression of his human corporation, but the really astonishing part about it—the part that, as he said, a human could never replicate—is the wings. There's the windmilling of his arms represented there, as one set of wings, and then the huge, fuck-off, currently hidden but very real feathered ones, every detail delicately pressed into the snow. Crowley is so suddenly, stupidly overcome that he can't speak for a moment.

Aziraphale lays a hand on his shoulder. "Crowley, you're magnificent. Truly. I didn't know it was going to be like this."

"Neither did I," Crowley says honestly.

"Let me try?" And then Aziraphale is lying down in the snow—a nearly unprecedented event just by itself—some distance away and imitating Crowley's movements. When he levers himself up, there's a perfect impression of Aziraphale's body left there, incorporeal bits and all. The wingtips are touching, and that's what really gets Crowley.

"Oh—darling, don't cry," Aziraphale says, rushing back to his side. "Is it too much?"

Crowley sniffles. "'M okay. Just—wow. And me, thinking I was bringing you out here to play."

He gathers himself and takes a few pictures of the snow angels on his phone, then just lets himself lean on Aziraphale as they gaze at their art.

"We still can, you know," Aziraphale says. "Play, that is. If you still want to."

"What did you have in mind?" Crowley asks.

"Well," Aziraphale says, "have you ever made a snowman?"

So they roll giant snowballs together, six of them in varying sizes, and build snowpeople. Crowley does a study of Aziraphale in snow; Aziraphale makes one of Crowley. These don't have visible wings, but when they're done, Aziraphale, with a careful eye, bends the ends of their stick arms just enough that they could be holding hands.

When they're done, they stand in front of the snowpeople to admire their work, and Crowley slips his gloved hand into Aziraphale's. Life imitates art.

"We're no great sculptors, certainly," Aziraphale says critically. Then he turns to Crowley and gives him that dazzling smile, and Crowley remembers all over again that he's in love. "But I think we make a rather good team."

"I'd say so, yeah," Crowley says, offering up a grin of his own. He has to pull his hand back to snap pictures of the snowpeople, and then a selfie of the two of them, but rejoins them for the walk back to the car. "Now let's go home. I'm freezing, you know that?"

Aziraphale laughs. "I knew you would be! But don't worry, my dear," he says in a tone aiming for sultry. "I'll make sure you get warmed up... properly."

Crowley leans over and brushes his lips against Aziraphale's ear. "I'm counting on it."


	29. Glitter

"There's glitter in your _hair_ ," Aziraphale frets. He pauses in brushing ineffectually at Crowley's head and considers the terrible implications of this. "Wait. Is there glitter in _my_ hair?"

"Stop pawing me for a second so I can look," Crowley says, peering at Aziraphale. "Mmm. Yeah. Afraid so. It's a good look, if that helps."

"You insufferable flirt," Aziraphale says, but it works, it always works when Crowley says things like that, particularly when he's not expecting it. He lowers his hands and slumps against Crowley's side. 

They're lying in bed, above the bookshop, and Aziraphale doesn't know how they got there the night before. He only doesn't have a hangover thanks to the grace of miracles. "What on Earth did we do last night?"

"What, you don't remember?" Crowley asks gleefully.

Aziraphale glares at him. "Just remind me, please. I'm sure I'll pick up the thread at some point."

"We got drunk," Crowley begins.

"That seems obvious, given the general state of—well, everything." Aziraphale waves a hand at the disheveled and glitter-flecked pair they make. "But please, continue."

"You wanted wine when we got back from being in the snow, to help warm up—"

" _You_ wanted wine," Aziraphale says as a flash of memory comes back. Crowley, sticking around after driving them back, dangling the bottle by its neck.

"All right, we both did," Crowley concedes. "And then a few glasses in, you said, 'you know, we've done almost everything Christmasy there is to do, except—'"

"I don't talk like that," Aziraphale says automatically. Then, all at once, he picks up the thread. "Except—oh, no. Crowley, we didn't."

Crowley pats his arm. "We did, I'm afraid."

"In the bookshop?" Aziraphale presses his face despairingly into Crowley's shoulder, which is enticingly bare and warm.

"In the _back_ of the bookshop," Crowley says, as if that could possibly make it better.

" _Crafting_ ," Aziraphale says. His voice is somewhat muffled, but he doesn't let that deter him. "With glitter. In _my_ bookshop. What were we thinking?"

He remembers, now, one or both of them pulling paper and glue and gold glitter from somewhere—well, the glitter was certainly Crowley, or at least Crowley's influence, but he's not quite sure about the rest. It might have been him.

Aziraphale feels himself softening the more he leans against Crowley. "What did we make?" he asks. What he means is, _was it worth it_ , although of course, where Crowley's concerned, that's never been the right question at all.

Crowley nudges him. "See for yourself."

Aziraphale, begrudgingly, rolls over onto his back and looks up, and oh. All along the crown molding, there are cream and gold paper chains strung like fairy lights, and shining almost as much. Inexpertly crafted and shedding glitter, to be sure, but pretty enough. And, more to the point, something they made together, no miracles needed.

"My papercrafting skills are a bit rusty," he says after a few moments of staring. "Still, I suppose we did all right, for being soused."

He turns back onto his side and throws an arm over Crowley's middle, and rests his head on Crowley's chest, and keeps admiring their handiwork. Crowley welcomes him closer and ruffles his hair up at the back, so he supposes Crowley hears what he's not willing to admit out loud.

Aziraphale turns back to Crowley, and his eyes cast down Crowley's form to the mattress beneath them. Something shiny catches his eye; with a sinking feeling, he moves to investigate it, then flops back dramatically.

"There's glitter in our _bed_ ," he wails, and Crowley just laughs.


	30. Resolution

It has been, Crowley thinks, one of the happiest months of his very long life. Certainly one of the most eventful; he and Aziraphale have rarely put this much effort into thinking of things to do with each other, all in a row like this, but the holiday spirit turned out to be infectious after all.

(Not to mention, there was the whole thing where they promised themselves to each other. Crowley still catches himself staring down at his ring or at Aziraphale's retreating figure with giddy disbelief.)

For the new year, though, he thinks he'd like to settle down for a little while, really enjoy being retired. He wants a garden, and a library, and a home.

He's not sure how to broach the subject with Aziraphale, who's been more or less happily settled for two centuries while Soho grew around him. Somehow, though, Aziraphale knows this and does it for him.

"I've been thinking," Aziraphale says. They're curled together on Crowley's sofa again, and Crowley is drowsy against Aziraphale's chest, thanks to the warmth of the fire and a certain angel's fingers stroking his hair. "About what you said, about London outgrowing us."

"Hmmm? What about it?" Crowley, out of centuries-bred habit, tries and fails to ignore the hopeful leaping in his chest.

"I've been doing some research." From somewhere, Aziraphale produces a sheaf of papers and thrusts them at Crowley.

They're real estate listings, dozens of them, printed out from various websites. Crowley knew that Aziraphale could use the internet, he's _seen_ it, but it touches him, still, that he would brave it for this, for their future together.

"I thought, perhaps—I know you're used to this place, but I thought a house would suit best." Aziraphale's fingers twist anxiously in Crowley's hair; Crowley slips a hand up Aziraphale's jumper and rubs soothing patterns over his skin until he releases the tension and continues his earlier petting. "We'll need the space, especially if I'm to close the bookshop."

"Mmm. Tired of being an entrepreneur, angel?" Crowley flips through the listings, barely glancing at any of the property descriptions. He'll know it when he sees it.

"Well, it would hardly be sporting if I was never there to open the shop, and I don't fancy myself a commuter," Aziraphale says. "Not when I have such a good reason to stay close to home."

Crowley blushes and grins and uses Aziraphale's printouts as an excuse to hide his face. No, no, no, maybe, no, no— _there_.

"This one," he says, jabbing his finger at the listing and letting the rest of the papers fall to the floor. "I'm telling you, this is the place."

When Aziraphale takes the listing from him and examines it, his whole face lights up, which is a better feeling than those generated by any holiday, in Crowley's opinion.

"That was my favorite, too," Aziraphale says. He rests his chin on Crowley's head and gently pulls the rest of the papers out of his hands to set them on the floor. "I'll call to inquire tomorrow, or do you want to see it in person to be sure?"

"I'm sure," Crowley says.

He turns in Aziraphale's arms and leans up to kiss him, a slow, gentle press of lips that melts into something far sweeter that gives Crowley shivers all the way down to his toes. They stay like that for a while, just lazily kissing and tangling their tongues together.

"Are we buying a house?" Crowley asks dreamily after a while.

Aziraphale pecks him on the lips again. "Yes, even if I have to ask the realtor _very_ nicely."

"And we're getting married," he says, still marveling at that fact.

Another peck. "Yes, you old sop."

"And we saved the world," Crowley adds.

"We were there," Aziraphale agrees modestly.

Crowley stretches up to loop his arms around Aziraphale's neck. "What a year this has been."

"I'd say it can only get better from here, but that feels like tempting fate, doesn't it?" Aziraphale worries at his bottom lip, which causes Crowley to make a noise in his throat and surge up to kiss him again.

When he pulls back, after several very comprehensive minutes, Crowley says, "Only one way to find out."


	31. Auld Lang Syne

On the last night of the year, they sit on the roof of the bookshop and wait for the fireworks over London.

There's a bottle of wine between them, but they aren't drinking it so much as just passing it back and forth. There is no more snow on the ground, but it feels as though there ought to be, the world is so hushed and still in their little bubble of contentment. There are two rings on their fingers, not matching but a pair nonetheless.

Inside, there is a tree that will be conscientiously be taken down after New Year's, and mistletoe that hasn't dared to wilt hanging in every threshold, and flecks of gold glitter still lingering on the floorboards and carpets.

There is a tartan scarf, in Aziraphale's own pattern, wound securely around Crowley's neck. There is an angel and a demon, both quite retired now, and they are in love.

As the hour gets closer, Crowley shifts closer to Aziraphale and wraps the duvet they've brought up here a little tighter around them. The duvet technically belongs at the Mayfair flat, but it blocks the wind and chill better than anything Aziraphale's collected.

"D'you think you'll miss it?" Crowley waves a hand expansively at Soho. The suddenly sharp gaze he gives Aziraphale, unhidden by sunglasses, suggests that he means more than just the neighborhood.

"No," Aziraphale says, and then, "some of it, perhaps," and then, "I'm not sure, really." He gives Crowley a helpless sort of shrug. "Will you?"

"The bookshop? 'Course," Crowley says. He nudges Aziraphale. "It'll be less fun being a nuisance in your home when I live there, too."

Aziraphale makes a face that seems to say 'be serious' and wraps an arm around him under the duvet.

"Won't miss the rest of it," Crowley declares. "I haven't yet." He pauses. "Well. Maybe a little. Still, it'll be nice to get away, let the city get on for a bit without us rattling around."

"I intend to keep the property, at least for now," Aziraphale says, drawing the conversation back to more comfortable ground. He prods Crowley's thigh and gives him a secret sort of smile. "It's been in my family for generations, you know."

"I'll drink to that," Crowley says. He lifts the wine bottle and takes a swig. "To Aziraphale's ancestral home, and the times we've had there."

"To auld lang syne," agrees Aziraphale, taking a sip from the offered bottle.

They're quiet again, then, as the minutes tick closer to midnight. Aziraphale leans his head on Crowley's shoulder. "I'm glad I won't have to miss you," he says, in a voice so quiet it's almost lost in the wind.

A noise seems to get caught in Crowley's throat. "You won't," he promises. "Not ever again. You'll get sick of seeing me, in fact."

Aziraphale squeezes his side affectionately. "I haven't yet." He pulls out his pocket watch and squints at the hands. "Oh, it's nearly time."

He holds it out in front of both of them, and they watch the seconds tick by in comfortable silence. Ten, nine, eight....

"Happy new year," Aziraphale murmurs into the darkness. Crowley says it back and kisses him. Just a chaste one at first, to mark the occasion, and then another, deeper one, with open mouths and hands tangling in hair as fireworks explode over London.

"Shhhh," Aziraphale says, dragging himself away from Crowley. "Let's watch the finale, and then I'll take you to bed."

There are lights bursting in the sky, colors streaming through the darkness; there is a neighborhood in Soho paying no mind to the two figures melded together on top of the bookshop; there is a general feeling of hope, peace, and goodwill. There is love, suffusing the whole area.

Aziraphale is as good as his word—when the fireworks end, he lets out a deep sigh of satisfaction and takes Crowley's hand. The bookshop technically doesn't have roof access, so anyone in the immediate vicinity is obliged to not notice two man-shaped beings alight from the roof on extradimensional wings and enter the shop by the usual door.

Once inside, Crowley takes charge of undressing them, but soft, so softly. He strips them down and lays them down in bed, and they make love to each other, no urgency to it, just perfect contentment.

When they're finished and are settling down for a really good cuddle and nap, Crowley snaps his fingers and recovers the duvet from wherever it landed earlier. It covers the slightly narrow bed and then some, and he pulls it up to their chins and snuggles more firmly against Aziraphale.

"It's a good job for you that I like you clingy," Aziraphale informs him, with a few snuggly wiggles of his own.

"Yeah? I like you always," Crowley says, yawning.

In the darkness of the room, Aziraphale's lips curve up with fondness. "Go to _sleep_ ," he says. "It's a brand new world outside."

In the first hours of the new year, Crowley and Aziraphale wrap around each other and let their heartbeats slow, their breathing even out. There are plans to, perhaps, go for breakfast when they wake up, or maybe go for a walk, or just spend the whole of the day in bed.

There is an ending to festivities, at least for now, until the seasons turn dark and cold again. But these are two immortal beings, with a future together, and they have all the time in the world.


End file.
